


Come what may

by crazy640



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Blow Jobs, Brotherly Love, Clubbing, Declarations Of Love, Doctor Who References, Emotional Roller Coaster, Family, Finally A Case, First Dates, First Kiss, First Time, Getting Back Together, Insecurity, Jealous John, Jealous Sherlock, M/M, Making Out, Misunderstandings, Original Character(s), Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Past Drug Addiction, Post-Reichenbach, Sort Of, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide Attempt, Unresolved Emotional Tension, Unresolved Romantic Tension, Unresolved Sexual Tension, not between john and sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-15
Updated: 2020-03-03
Packaged: 2020-12-31 02:21:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 14
Words: 188,561
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21047936
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crazy640/pseuds/crazy640
Summary: The airfield at Heathrow Airport came up to him as if it wanted to swallow it.The American Airlines boing completed its descent with leaps and tussles, before the pilot activated the brakes to hold the huge beast and prevent it from crashing into another plane or in one of the fields surrounding the runways.The man sitting in seat A6, despite being seated by the window, avoided looking at the view outside of the porthole; after all, what would be different from so many other airports, other countries he had visited in the last three years?Maybe something was different this time...That would be his last flight, the last landing for a long time, maybe forever.He was going home.Or rather he had returned to London, he would have really only come home when he set foot at 221B Baker Street.





	1. London calling

**Author's Note:**

> Hello everybody!  
This fiction is a translation of an italian fiction that I wrote before Sherlock S03 was aired.  
I know you will find some differences from the series and my story % for this reason I decided to add the tag "AU-Canon Divergence" even if it follows the series till the Reichenbach Fall.  
My mother tongue is Italian and, even if I've been studying English since I was 6, I'm sure I made some mistake... SORRY!  
Let me know what you think of my story.
> 
> Eva

The airfield at Heathrow Airport came up to him as if it wanted to swallow it.

The American Airlines boing completed its descent with leaps and tussles, before the pilot activated the brakes to hold the huge beast and prevent it from crashing into another plane or in one of the fields surrounding the runways.

The man sitting in seat A6, despite being seated by the window, avoided looking at the view outside of the porthole; after all, what would be different from so many other airports, other countries he had visited in the last three years?

Maybe something was different this time...

That would be his last flight, the last landing for a long time, maybe forever.

He was going home.

Or rather he had returned to London, he would have really only come home when he set foot at 221B Baker Street.

The pilot turned off the engines and behind him, in the tourist class separated from the first class by a simple blue curtain, he heard the applause of the other passengers, clearly happy to have arrived at their destination, safe and sound.

Nobody likes to become a number in an air accident statistic.

The red seatbelt signal went off a moment later and the man unfastened his own, sitting motionless in his seat, as opposed to the bank manager sitting next to him who hurried to double-check his papers for the thousandth time and to turn on its iPhone, despite the express ban on hostesses.

The man sitting in the A6 seat took refuge in his own mind, thus annulling all the external noises: he was in no hurry to get out, as opposed to his fellow passengers.

There were a myriad of things waiting for him outside of that plane, all his work of the previous three years would have been scrutinized, to check that everything had been done in the utmost legality, but that was the least of his problems.

The only thing that mattered to man was that he was able to carry out his plan: he had untangled the spider's web. 

Every tiny cell of Moriarty’s web had fallen: deceased or in a high-security cell in some remote prison.

Being alive at the end of that operation was just a plus.

Now he could finally take back his own life, regain his identity and start again where he had left off three years earlier.

-Mr. Watson- a voice made his way through his thoughts leading him to lay his gaze on the male hostess standing next to his seat with his eyes fixed on him. -Mr. Watson, will you follow me please?" he asked then.

The passenger of the A6 stood up, slightly bending his head to avoid colliding with the overhead bins and with a single step of the long legs, climbed over the banker sitting by his side before the man even hinted at moving, stopping in the corridor just enough time to take his travel bag in to the compartment above.

He then followed the male steward to the head of the plane, regardless of the looks of the other first-class passengers, who had been politely asked to sit for a few more minutes, wondering who that silent passenger was and what did he do to receive such treatment.

The curiosity increased even more when they saw the captain come out of his cabin and, after settling his hat on his head and checking that his uniform was in order, standing in front of that mysterious passenger.

"Mr. Watson was an honor to have you on board of our flight" he said with obvious admiration, reaching his hand out to him.

The man quickly observed the pilot: clearly in his forties, recently divorced, with an incipient baldness that he tried to cure with oily and useless products, smoker in clear abstinence because of the long flight.

He nodded his head without even considering shaking the hand of the other man and turned to the male steward, clearly ready to follow him; the man smiled at him and opened the plane's tailgate, showing him the iron ladder that would lead him to the runway .

The man, going down the stairs, saw the tunnel that would take the rest of the passengers to passport control and then to the baggage claim, waiting for that "illustrated" passenger to get off the plane.

It took him a moment to locate the black car waiting on the track.

Typical.

Trying to walk against the wind, he slowly walked towards the car, as if he could avoid that encounter somehow, but when he was a few meters away, the car door at the front right opened waiting for him.

The man stood by the open door and leaned inwards, peering for an instant at the person sitting inside.

"Were you afraid I'd run away?" he asked to the man sitting inside.

Mycroft Holmes opened and closed his right hand around the handle of his umbrella and gave him a tired smile.

He would have preferred physical torture a thousand times rather than admit that he had missed him, the man knew him too well.

“Of course.

Now get in the car, there’s a whole Boeing full of people looking at us," he said.

"What if I didn't want to do it?"the other onepunched him again.

Mycroft’s eyes rolled back in an annoyed expression.

-Then you're going to have to explain to our passport office why you were on the airstrip of an international airport with a fake passport.

Are you sure you want to spend your first night in England in a prison? -he asked him trying to contain the impatience that the man could provoke in him with a few words.

The man looked around for a few moments, only to irritate the British Government more, although he was right: his plans for that day were very different than a cell in an English prison.

If everything had gone according to plan that night he would have been at home, with the only person he had missed in those years.

The only person who really mattered in his life.

Without adding anything else, he got into the car, keeping himself slightly away from the man and placing his bag on the ground between them.

The car moved on the tarmac in a fluid manner, and inside the car fell the usual silence that characterized the relationship between the two men.

-So... - Mycroft started when the car went through a gate and left the airport.

-So...-

-What am I going to call you from now on?

Mr. Watson? Or can I use your real name? -he asked with a slight hint of irony in his voice.

Sherlock pressed his lips against one other.

In those years he had used so many names that he could no longer remember his real name.

But in recent months, when it became apparent that his "mission"was concluding, he had adopted the only name besides his own that had meaning for him.

Hamish Watson.

"How's the diet?" he asked instead, thus avoiding answering.

Next to him, he heard his brother's frustrated sigh.

"Very good, thank you. I'm moved by your interest," said the other.

Silence fell again back inside the car as the SUV entered the motorway that would take them back to London.

The sky above them was covered with gray clouds and soon a slight drizzle of dull rain would begin to fall.

Sherlock found himself admitting that he had missed those little things: those atmospheric changes so sudden that he could only find in England, the typical smell of London, made of smog, rain, stagnant water and wet grass.

-Mummy would like to see you- he heard Mycroft say.

"Sooner or later I'll go and see her," Sherlock said distractedly, watching the countryside run away of the window.

"You could do that today" the other one pointed out.

-I have other plans. That include neither visiting Mummy nor reviewing the last three years of my life with your MI6 lackeys- he said making his priorities clear.

For the first time since he got into the car, Sherlock felt his older brother's gaze on him.

He knew what the result of the examination would be: he had lost almost twenty-five pounds in those years, replacing fat with muscles, he also had bleached his black hair in a reddish color that led him to twist his mouth every time he had the opportunity to look in a mirror and the deep dark circles under his blue eyes make them pop out even more.

Not to mention what the clothes covered from sight: various scars marked his body, relics of the private war that he had fought to take his life back.

"Those hairs are really awful" said the oldest of the Holmes’ brothers.

"I didn’t dye my hair for you" Sherlock said, just for the sake of contradicting him, even if he couldn't wait to return to his natural color.

After a few more moments of silence, Mycroft decided it was time to address the main topic, the one that mattered the most to his brother.

"So, what are you going to do on your first day as a free man?" he asked cautiously.

-Let everyone know I'm alive, of course- he said as if it was obvious.

Mycroft nodded.

-Obviously- he repeated.

Sherlock frowned and moved slightly on the seat, looking at his brother.

"Is there a problem?" he asked, trying to hide his irritation.

He had spent three years in solitude, except for a few short episodes, and what motivated him to move on was the moment when he could make his position clear, when he would finally see again Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson...

John.

Of course, he knew it wouldn't be easy, that he couldn't expect to be welcomed with open arms, in fact he was especially concerned about the reaction John would have when they will see each other again for the first time, but now that he was back he wasn't going to wait a moment longer than necessary.

"A lot of things have changed during your absence, little brother" Mycroft said vaguely.

Sherlock kept staring at him, waiting for the other man to continue.

-While you were around the world dismantling Moriarty's web, people got on with their lives...-

-Do you think I don't know? - retorted Sherlock in an irritated tone.

Mycroft copied the detective's expression and decided to test him.

"So you're aware that, since the last time you saw her, Molly Hopper has become Mrs. Dimmock?" he asked, continuing without giving him time to respond. - Or that Detective Lestrade worked office hours and petty crimes to for almost two years because of your collaboration and that only now has he managed to return to active service? - asked Mycroft a little peeved.

-Or do we want to talk about Mrs. Hudson? -

"Mrs. Hudson?"asked Sherlock, trying not to let his worry shine through in his own voice.

-She had a little surgery. A clogged artery almost caused her a stroke.

Fortunately, I was able to offer her the best possible care without the good doctor noticing anything" Mycroft explained.

Sincerely overwhelmed for the avalanche of information that had invested him, Sherlock allowed himself a few moments of silence to process and catalogue them.

He knew that Molly had a boyfriend; it was evident since the last time he had seen her and it had taken him a look in her apartment to realize it, almost a year and a half before, but for some reason he never thought it was the Detective Dimmock .

Anyway, Sherlock was convinced that the man was the right person for Molly.

As for Lestrade, it had become clear from the evening that the inspector showed up at Baker Street with a warrant that things were not going well for him, that referral must have been the natural consequence of their collaborations on Lestrade's cases.

But there was something that made no sense in what Mycroft had told him and when he returned to look at the man, he found him waiting for the question he knew would come any time.

-Why did you have to deal with Mrs. Hudson's health secretly? -

A little smile appeared on his brother's thin lips.

“Let's just say that the relationship between me and your doctor isn't very cordial right now. And I think it will be even less so when you make your reappearance" he said.

For the second time, Sherlock arched his eyebrows in a surprised expression.

He hated not understanding things!

Trying to help him, Mycroft pulled a manila-colored folder out of his door glove compartment and handed it to him.

Sherlock opened it and the first thing he saw was a photograph of John; not the John Watson he remembered, but what had survived his death by reinventing himself in something completely different at least in his eyes.

The man had lost weight, at least ten pounds, he had grown a blonde-reddish beard on his chin and jaws that joined with the sideburns, short hair now tending more to gray than to the ash blonde cut in a short military cut.

A warmth feeling enveloped Sherlock just to observe the picture of the man: he was different from how he remembered him, he knew he could say the same about himself, but it was always John.

_His_ John.

The clothes were always the same, the jeans discolored at his knees, the green jacket from which he glimpsed the neck of a sweater and the usual flat shoes.

The only thing that was wrong was the mahogany stick to which the man leaned on.

He started limping again...

And the fact that he left the hospital issued iron crutch with a walking stick meant that he had now given up on that physical deficit, that he was no longer trying to fight that psychosomatic disease.

It had become a part of him.

Making a huge effort,he looked away from the photo and moved on, quickly reading the first sheet: a Barts Hospital hospitalization sheet for dehydration a few weeks after his death,with the list of various exams and treatments to which John was submitted and the following resignation sheet signed by John.

The following paper was the new contract at the clinic where John had worked for years, with a salary increase that was definitely Mycroft's doing and another paper that certified that Dr. John Hamish Watson was promoted to the role of Director of the aforementioned clinic with the date of a few months before.

Finally, one last photograph: John with a man.

Sherlock looked closely at the stranger: tall, probably six feet, six feet eighty-five, with thick brown hair and eyes of the same color.

They were next to each other, immortalized with a cup of coffee in their hands; John was leaning against a wall, his head facing down, in the usual position he assumed when he was laughing at something he thought was inappropriate and his hypothesis was confirmed by the amused smile on the stranger's lips.

Judging by the coat John was wearing, it was supposed to be a coffee break while working, but Sherlock ruled out that the two were colleagues, noting the lack of the white coat on the other man replaced by a leather jacket.

Nothing else.

"Is that all you've managed to scrape together in these years?" he asked, trying not to give importance to the hot, sour feeling that had awakened in his stomach because of the last photograph.

Once he needed the spy skills of his brother and his lackeys, Mycroft was able to disappoint him.

He needed all the information he could get about John and the man in that photograph, and those three sheets of paper weren't enough.

-Your doctor...- began speaking Mycroft.

"He's not my doctor!" interrupted harshly Sherlock. 

Mycroft answered him with a little ironic smile.

-Are you still telling yourself this lie? - he asked.

Sherlock exhaled, one step away from opening the door and getting out of the running car, heedless of the cars whizzing past them.

"I said, Dr. Watson has made a habit over the years of go through the apartment every two days looking for microphones and cameras" he said.

Sherlock could not hold back the smile that had formed at the corners of his mouth: something of their shared life must have rubbed off on John.

"How many times has he managed to find your bugs?" he asked curiously.

-More than I'd like to admit- confessed the government official.

Sherlock giggled.

-However...-continued Mycroft changing the subject- As you saw from the file, after a long period of leave he resumed working at the clinic and reached a respectable position for someone like him-

Sherlock felt the blood boil for those words, but he avoided commenting on the stupid ideas his brother had made about their relationship.

-He continued to live in Baker Street despite all his friends recommending him to move elsewhere and maintained a good friendship with Mike Stanford, Molly Dimmock and Detective Lestrade.

"You call him Detective even in intimacy?" Sherlock teased him.

-He and Lestrade were the maid of honor at Miss Hopper and Detective Dimmock wedding - continued Mycroft unperturbed, as if he had not heard the question from his brother. -Also reconnected with Sarah Sawyer, his colleague at the clinic and ex-girlfriend - added.

Sarah? The same Sarah of the Chinese theater?

-They've become very intimate. -

"I don't see why I should be interested in it!" snapped Sherlock.

He knew that something like this could happen during his absence.

John had always been very extroverted with women, so he certainly didn't expect him to stop dating them just because his roommate had jumped down a roof.

To be honest, a part of him had hoped that John would build a life with someone else, so at least he wouldn't just mourn his passing for the rest of his days.

Then why did that bother him so much?

"That's not what you think little brother" Mycroft told him without hiding his amused smile.

Sherlock snorted and crossed his arms.

The black SUV had now entered London, he could recognize the silhouettes of Brixton.

"Welcome _home" _Sherlock thought.

"Is there anything I can say to dissuade you from going to 221B Baker Street as soon as you get out of this car?"asked Mycroft, ripping him back from his thoughts.

Sherlock turned to his brother: only one other person knew him as well as Mycroft, so the man must know that that question was useless.

Then, like an afterthought, an idea crossed his mind.

-Is there anything you forgot to tell me, dear brother? - he asked.

-Today is Monday. You won't find your doctor at home.

And not even tomorrow- Mycroft said cryptic.

"Are these the days when he has a sleepover with Dr. Sawyer?" he asked, even if he knew deep inside that it wasn't the right answer.

What if it wasn’t Dr. Sawyer?

What if John spent every Monday and Tuesday with the stranger in the leather jacket?

No, impossible!

Mycroft shook his head.

"I told you that their relationship is not what it seems" he reminded him.

"Then could you tell me what you're dying to say and stop being so mysterious?" blurted out Sherlock, barely controlling his frustration.

The older man sighed.

\- Dr. Watson discovered a side of himself that he wasn't fully aware of when you two lived together...

Let's just say that lately the fair sex doesn't have much appeal for him, as opposed to young black-haired man-

An incredulous expression was painted on Sherlock's face: could It be that Mycroft was insinuating what he thought he understood?

"It's not possible" he muttered.

John, _his_ John would never do such thing.

The government official nodded.

-The "Pride" in Soho is one of his favorite clubs.

Most of the time he goes alone, but it happened that he was accompanied by Gregory...-

"And you let your man go to clubs like that?"asked Sherlock, trying to make sense of that conversation.

Mycroft turned slowly towards him and stared at him.

"I could ask you the same question" he said with a serious expression on his face.

-John is not my man- answered Sherlock, surprised that his brother wanted to put all the cards on the table for once in their life.

-And who is to blame, Sherlock?

At least I know that my man will come home to me at the end of the evening dragging behind his best friend, drunk and desperate for the death of my little brother, despite being able to pick up a lookalike of yours every time he goes to a club.

Every single time Sherlock-he reiterated as if he wanted to make the concept clearer.

-And when he does bring him to our home, I'm going to have to sneak out of the house at dawn because the aforementioned friend can't stay more than five seconds in the room with me without venting his anger, let alone finding out that I'm his best friend's partner-added Mycroft without acrimony.

Sherlock swallowed confused: were they really talking about the same person?

He knew John... He would never be able to overcome that reverential fear that shook him every time he came face to face with Mycroft, let alone succumb to violence!

There was still doubt as to the identity of the man in the photo, but he could not find the courage to ask the right question.

"So that's why he doesn't sleep at home on Mondays and Tuesdays?" he asked again.

Mycroft shook his head, getting a grip of himself after that brief moment of intimacy.

-No, only Mondays.

All I can tell you is that every Tuesday, after leaving the clinic, Dr. Watson disappears for a few hours and then reappears at Dr. Sawyer's house.

And every time he spends the night with her and they go to the clinic together the next morning-

Sherlock let himself slide down so as to rest his head against the black skin of the seat.

"Where are you taking me Mycroft?" he asked uninterested.

It had become apparent to him a few minutes before that this was not the road to Baker Street, even though he had only managed to find now the strength to ask that question.

\- In a flat in the building across from Gregory's apartment.

So at least you'll have a chance to see your doctor tonight... Even though I don't know how much you're going to like to see him completely drunk.

Sherlock merely nodded.

He needed time to think.

_______________________________

Sherlock stayed in the apartment just to take a shower and wear clean clothes.

Then he had closed the door of the apartment behind him and left.

The first impulse had been to head to Baker Street and visit Mrs. Hudson, but he had to discard that idea for the possibility of coming face to face with John.

He wasn't ready for that fight yet. He had sought-after that moment for the last three years, yet now after all the information he received he had concluded that he had to collect all the possible data about the man before meeting him.

Starting with the mysterious man in the picture.

So he had walked the streets of London, finally free, without having to look over his shoulder every moment in search of snipers or assassins who might be on his trail.

"**_Many things have changed in your absence_**..."

Sherlock had always known that he was an intelligent man with a higher-than-average IQ, so he had considered that possibility from the very first moment he decided to stage his own death.

But he didn't expect things to change so radically...

Molly's marriage occupied a smallest part of his thoughts, accompanied by gratitude to the woman for all the help she had given him during those years, and to the relief that he would finally no longer be the object of her clumsy advances.

Lestrade's work problems were of little interest to him either: he certainly considered him one of the few friends in the world, but Lestrade knew what he was up against from the moment he asked him to cooperate in his first case.

He had taken the merits of all his successes and, in a sense, it was right that he should also take responsibilities.

What had scared him the most was learning about Mrs. Hudson's health problems and the radical change that had taken place in John.

To think that he had been close enough not to find his dear landlady, who he now considered almost a second mother on his return home took his breath away.

But how to explain what had happened to John?

The physical transformation, as if he wanted to erase every trace of the John Watson with whom Sherlock had lived for eighteen months, but above all the emotional one, which had made him more blunt, mysterious... As if he'd spent the last three years looking over his shoulder for bounty hunters.

And how to explain the evenings in the gay clubs?

Throughout their friendship, John had never mentioned a possible homosexual or bisexual attraction, given the constant turnover of women with whom he accompanied.

"**Young** **_black-haired men..._** "

_Were you looking for a way to replace me, John_?

Or to keep my memory alive?

But what bothered him the most, even if he didn't understand why, was the stranger in the photo.

Who was he?

What did it mean to John?

If it was hi "boyfriend", Mycroft would have known, it would have been the first thing she would have made him aware of.

Returning to the present, he noticed that his feet had brought him to Barts Hospital.

He only had to look around for a few moments to find the exact spot where John had stood still, his gaze upwards, where he stood on the ledge and greeted him for the last time.

"**_\- No one is so clever._**

**_-You are. _**"

No one had ever had so much confidence in him... Not even his mother.

He sighed, shrugging off those negative thoughts, and walked to the secondary entrance to the morgue, where three years earlier he had been led in a stretcher by a group of fake nurses.

He walked through those familiar corridors, in which he had found himself countless times and breathed the smell of the hospital in his lungs.

He had missed it and for a moment wondered what had happened to his scientific equipment, and then immediately put the thought away.

He opened the door of the morgue where he used to meet up with Molly and stopped at the door.

A man with his back to the door with short light brown hair and a raincoat on, was busy with his mobile phone, probably answering a text.

He turned around as he heard the door, and as soon as his eyes rested on the visitor, Sherlock saw them wide open.

A stunned expression appeared on the face of the man who in shock, dropped his mobile phone to the ground.

"Detective Dimmock" greeted Sherlock by walking away from the door- It's a pleasure to see you again- he added then out of sheer formality.

The man quickly bent down to pick up the cell phone from the ground and continued to stare at him.

"It can't be..." he murmured.

"Detective, have they never told you that it's rude to stare at people so insistently?"asked Sherlock as he approached one of the worktables in the middle of the room, staying a few feet away from the man.

The next moment the door leading to Molly's office opened and the woman appeared; both Sherlock and Dimmock turned towards her and Sherlock barely had time to notice Molly's new haircut that she threw her arms around his neck, surprising herself and the two men.

-Sherlock! I knew you'd be back!" she said with an excited voice.

Sherlock stood motionless in the embrace, until the woman broke off and looked at him for a few moments.

"You've lost weight since the last time we met, but I think it's normal given your dislike to food" she said, stepping a few steps away from him.

-I lost weight thanks to your cooking Molly... - Sherlock retorted.

Molly hinted a smile, not at all offended by that comment, happy with the presence of the man in the room.

"Is it normal that I missed your little comments?" she asked him with the same smile that accompanied her from the moment she laid eyes on the detective. -Those hairs are appalling. It doesn’t suit you at all- commented then.

-Aesthetics haven't been one of my main problems these years, you should know that-

"Wait a minute" Dimmock intruded looking at Molly- Did you know he was alive? -he asked her.

Molly looked down, caught red-handed: it was the first time her role in Sherlock's fake suicide came to light.

-Miss Hopper... or sorry, Mrs. Dimmock was crucial for the success of the operation-answered Sherlock for her.

"So you knew everything from the beginning?" asked Dimmock again to his wife.

Molly nodded.

-Who else knows? Greg? John? -he carried on.

"I was under the impression that you were an intelligent man Detective, so try to keep up!" Sherlock commented slightly bored.

-Sherlock! -reproached Molly before returning to look at her husband- No one else knows that this was a fake suicide, apart from me and I believe Sherlock's brother- she added by casting a glance at the man who nodded.

Dimmock passed his hand through his hair and sighed, clearly confused; worried about her husband, Molly moved closer, stopping in front of him and took his hand in hers.

"I promise I'll explain everything to you, or at least everything I know, but now I need to be alone with Sherlock for five minutes" she said.

The man stared at her in silence, clearly undecided whether to grant her that favor or not.

"Please Robert" Molly said.

The man sighed and finally nodded.

"I'm waiting for you outside" he said, turning his back on the two of them and heading for the door.

"Detective!"called Sherlock.

Dimmock turned and look at him.

" I don’t think it's necessary to remind you that my return to the world of the living must remain among the three of us," he said.

Robert Dimmock merely nodded before taking the last steps that separated him from the door and out of the morgue.

Molly turned to look at him for a few moments then smiled.

-I'm glad you're here Sherlock-she said.

"Did you have any doubts?" heasked her to tease her.

She shook her head.

-About you? None.

But I was worried about the seriousness of your "mission" -she confessed.

Sherlock nodded his head, taking a few steps in that still so familiar environment despite years of absence.

"I think congratulations are a must" he said without looking at her.

-Thank you... Although I know you don't really mean it- Molly replied with a smile.

Sherlock smiled back and looked up at the woman: she had changed too in the eighteen months he had been away.

Physically she had remained the same, with the exception of her hair, now shorter and under control, but she had become a stronger and more confident woman and Sherlock found himself wondering if it was due to the "mission" in which she had found herself involved or if it had something to do with Detective Dimmock.

"Are you back for good?" he was asked.

Sherlock nodded again.

"Have you seen John yet?" asked Molly again, going straight to the point.

-Not yet. You are the first person I see in London, if we exclude my brother-

Molly smiled.

"What an honor" she said wryly.

Sherlock in turn gave her a small smile and then remained silent for a few moments.

"Why don't you just ask me Sherlock?"urged Molly.

The man looked up at her, with an innocent expression painted on his- face.

-I don't know why you came here before you went to Baker Street, but you're not here to congratulate me on my wedding.

So, tell me: what do you want to know? -she asked.

Sherlock stood a few moments in silence, surprised at how Molly had been able to interpret his silences and his true intentions.

-Everything you can tell me... - answered sincerely.

Molly approached one of the work tables and placed her elbows on top of it, sitting on a stool.

"It's not been easy for him these past few years- she started.

\- After your death, he came here with Greg and asked if he could see your body, but I forbade him as you told me.

Greg drove him home and practically put him to bed.

And he never got up again- she said with a sad sigh.

Sherlock arched an eyebrow.

-He stayed in bed for almost a month.

Greg at first tried to get him to eat, but then John kicked him out... I think he said something that wasn't very pleasant.

So they didn't see each other for a couple of weeks, until Mrs. Hudson contacted Greg worried about John: it was a couple of days that she heard no noise coming from the apartment-continued Molly.

-The hospitalization for dehydration... - murmured Sherlock.

Molly nodded.

-Greg had to break through the door to get into the bedroom.

The doctor at the hospital said it was at least five days that John had not bothered to drink or eat-she said in the same tone of voice as the man.

What the hell was going through John’s head? How could he let himself go like that only because of his death?

Molly cleared her voice and brought the man's attention back to her.

"Once he and Greg got home, they resumed their friendship" she said, interrupting for a moment and then talking again.

\- John was always a reserved person, but after your death he closed himself up even more. Greg was the only one who witnessed his moments of weakness, who helped him get back on his feet... At least until Jack's arrival.

Sherlock frowned.

-Jack? -

Molly nodded.

-Jack Michaels.

He and John met in a... -said the woman interrupting suddenly, looking up at Sherlock's face.

The detective looked up for some information, reading what the woman had not told him in her eyes.

"They met in a gay bar" he said.

Again, Molly nodded.

-Jack's a military man, he's in high-risk missions: bomb alarms terrorism, stuff like that, but spent a few years in Iraq in special forces.

I think they first bonded for their common past in the Army, then they... they liked each other and became...-

-They've become lovers- concluded Sherlock.

At those words Molly burst out laughing, leading the man to arch his eyebrows for the umpteenth time.

-Lovers? Of course not! They're just friends.

I don't doubt that they slept together...-

"Molly!"exclaimed Sherlock, surprised.

The doctor laughed again.

-Don't tell me I embarrassed you Sherlock!

You want me to believe that all these years you haven't found someone willing to cheer up your lonely nights? -she teased him.

Sherlock looked down, without answering.

It had only happened a few times and he was not proud of it...

-As I imagined... However, as I said, despite a few sporadic occasions, they have a good friendship.

They also came together at my wedding-

Sherlock remained silent for a few moments, coming to terms with the new truth hidden in those words: John had replaced him.

He had found someone with whom he had more in common and had shifted his loyalty to someone more deserving.

What was the point, in the light of those novelties, of coming back into his life and upsetting him again?

Wouldn't it have been better to disappear altogether, continue his farce and make another life elsewhere?

It wouldn't be easy for him, but he would have been willing to do it if that would have helped John in some way.

-Sherlock... - Molly said and brought him back to reality.

Their glances met and slowly a sympathetic smile appeared on the woman's face.

-No matter how much John tried to rebuild his life, or how much it has changed, in these three years he has never stopped missing you.

Did you know that he resumed working with Greg when he returned to Homicide? -she asked him.

Sherlock shook his head.

-He continued to live in Baker Street despite Greg and Harry offering him a place to stay, just because that apartment is the only connection he has with you.

He hasn't changed anything about your apartment... Sure he added some new appliances, but all your personal belongings are still there, even that stupid skull on the fireplace- she added with a smile which the man also joined.

Molly moved around the worktable and stopped in front of him, leading him to lower his gaze to meet the woman's.

"Do you know why so far no one has ever replace you?" she asked.

The detective shook his head again.

-Do you remember John's eyes? Smiling, full of life, shining every time he laughed? -she asked.

Sherlock nodded.

-Ever since you left, they are empty. Absent.

I always thought part of him died that day.

Your phantom presence will be too overwhelming for anyone...I'm the one who told Jack about you.

And even I didn't know what to tell him...-she admitted.

"So what did you tell him?"he asked.

Molly shrugged.

-That you and John were roommates and co-workers and that you had become friends from day one.

When he asked me if you were also lovers I was tempted to say yes- she confessed.

-Why's that? And how did you come up with such a silly idea? -he asked her in disbelief.

Molly giggled.

-Hey, don't look at me like that! I'm not the only one to believe you were a couple.

And it was so obvious... Oh come on! -she almost said it was not even worth it to talk about it.

Sherlock stared at her in disbelief, leading Molly to stared back surprised.

-Did you never notice?

When you two were together there was a harmony, an intimacy that only two ideal lovers have; I noticed it too despite my unhealthy crush for you! -she added.

\- And as if that were not enough it is almost a quarter of an hour that we're here talking about John-she pointed it out.

Sherlock stood up and walked a few steps away from her, his hands behind his back, missing for a moment his black coat.

-Well, you were all wrong!

There's never been anything between John and me beyond friendship- he clarified without turning around.

Molly shrugged.

"What a shame" she said a little bit sad.

Sherlock looked over his left shoulder and saw her sigh.

"Sherlock it’s late, I'm tired and Robert has waited long enough...-said Molly taking a couple of steps towards the door, approaching him.

"But I want to tell you one last thing" she said, stopping next to him.

\- It's rare to find someone who loves us despite our flaws, who defends us even when the rest of the world says we're wrong, when…- she said sighing.

-Someone who will wait for us even when it is obvious that we will not return- added Sherlock almost whispering.

Molly nodded.

"Don't waste the second chance you've been given" she said, walking to the door-Turn off the lights when you leave” she said before leaving the morgue.

Sherlock found himself alone once again, shrouded in silence as his mind quickly reflected on the long conversation he had with Molly.

Suddenly he re-emerged from his Mind Palace, walked to the door, turned off the general switches and left the room, moving quickly down the corridors until he found himself back in the streets.

It was dusk.

John was already at the Pride? Or had he first stopped at the pub with Greg for a couple of pints?

Looking around on the crowded street, he saw a taxi approaching, raised a hand and saw it stop slowly.

With a fluid movement he got inside and closed the door.

-Baker Street-


	2. Be careful what you wish for

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Tonight I'll sing my songs again  
I'll play the game and pretend  
But all my words come back to me in shades of mediocrity  
Like emptiness in harmony I need someone to comfort me  
Homeward bound  
I wish I was  
Homeward bound  
Home where my thought's escaping  
Home where my music's playing  
Home where my love lies waiting  
Silently for me"

The taxi left him a few miles away from 221B Baker Street.

Sherlock slowly walked the short distance that separated him from the house and looked around, storing in his Mind Palace all the changes that had occurred and all that remained the same in those three years.

When he stood in front of the black door for a few moments he was unsure whether to open it with his own key, which had finally found his place in the right pocket of the jacket or if to knock the gold-plated doorbell.

He decided on the second option, mainly to avoid scaring Mrs. Hudson, but also because he was unaware of the possible alarm systems installed in the meantime.

For a moment he lingered with his finger on the doorbell of the apartment now occupied only by John: was it still broken, or had the doctor in the meantime bothered to have it fixed?

Leaving those thoughts behind he decided to ring it.

He stayed by the door and found himself nervous, took a deep breath and knocked twice, then dropped his arms along his hips and waited.

He was almost certain that he would find her alone and had confirmation of it when he heard the slight noise of low heels on the wooden floor inside.

The door opened and when Mrs. Hudson appeared on the doorstep, Sherlock smiled.

The woman stood motionless, one hand still on the door, her gaze fixed on him, a smile that disappeared instantly replaced by an incredulous expression that turned in into an indignant sneer.

The next moment, Mrs. Hudson leaned slightly toward him, and quickly slapped him harshly.

"Sherlock Holmes!" she scolded while the man was busy massaging his reddened cheek.

\- Do you think this is appropriate for a woman of my age? -she asked him upset.

But the next moment she was again on the threshold, her arms around the man's shoulders taking advantage of the slight difference between them and hugging him.

And this time, contrary to what had happened with Molly, Sherlock reciprocated the embrace, clasping his arms around the woman's waist.

"You silly boy!" muttered Mrs. Hudson, letting her emotion break her voice.

Sherlock smile embarrassed and stroked her back.

They hugged for a few more moments until Sherlock pulled away from the hug and let the woman take him into the house.

"Come inside" she said, stepping aside.

Sherlock entered the small hall and followed Mrs. Hudson to her apartment, looking at the seventeen-step staircase leading to the apartment he had shared with John.

"He’s not there, dear" Mrs. Hudson informed him, reading his thought.

Sherlock nodded and followed her.

They found themselves in the small kitchen and Sherlock sat down to one of the faux-wood chairs around the table, while Mrs. Hudson started to fill the kettle with water.

-I'm going to put on the kettle. I also have cupcakes, and I expect you to eat some Sherlock, without making any fuss!

You're too skinny. And that hair…-added shaking her head unhappy.

"I don't like them either," Sherlock admitted to her for the first time out loud.

They remained silent until Mrs. Hudson poured the tea into two cups and placed some cupcakes on a saucer; in that time he looked around, examining the new wallpaper, seeing some framed photos placed everywhere in the kitchen: Mrs. Hudson with John, with Molly and Dimmock on their wedding day, there was one with Greg and even one with the stranger he now knew was called Jack Micheals.

When he noticed that Mrs. Hudson had arranged a cup of tea in front of him, Sherlock smiled at her.

"You have a lot of pictures" he said, looking for a neutral ground to start the conversation.

Mrs. Hudson sat down in front of him and then looked round.

-It's John's new passion. He's very good.

After you disappeared, he realized he didn't even have a picture of you, except for the ones in the papers, so he started taking pictures.

_Some things must be immortalized_, he always says-

Sherlock hinted at a smile in turn and brought the cup to his lips, but waited until he laid down the cup again to speak again.

-There's an explanation for what I did Mrs. Hudson...-he started.

-I'm sure, dear- Mrs. Hudson interrupted him.

-And I'm convinced that if you decided to do something like that you did it was because you didn't find another solution, am I right? -she asked, the cup raised in mid-air.

Sherlock nodded.

-It was the only way to ensure yours and John’s safety -confirmed.

"Are we safe now?" she asked without fear, as if she was ready to fight by his side, despite her age and health problems.

"I wouldn't have come back otherwise" the man reassured her.

Mrs. Hudson drank a few sips from her cup in silence and Sherlock did the same, letting fall a comfortable silence into the kitchen.

"I'm glad you’re back, dear but if you do something like that again I swear I'm going to kick your butt myself, despite my hip," the woman said, masking the warning in her usual jovial tone.

Sherlock smiled and nodded his head, as if wanting to take note of the rebuke.

"Mycroft told me that you had some health problems" he told her.

The woman shook her head.

-Just a little scare, nothing more.

Luckily John noticed it in time and the doctors put me back on my feet.

In this regard, I would like you to thank your brother for me for his interest.

I haven't seen him since the last time he came to see me in the hospital, and it's been almost a year now.

Sherlock frowned, wondering how to ask the next question.

"Why did John break off all relations with Mycroft?" he decided to simply ask.

Mrs. Hudson shrugged.

-I'm not aware of the exact reason, but I think it's because of you.

John is the one who suffered most of all for your passing, dear" she added.

Sherlock remained silent, after all it was something Mycroft and Molly had already told him in other contexts.

-I was afraid that he would commit some nonsense during the first two years... - she confessed.

"I heard he was in the hospital" Sherlock said.

Mrs. Hudson nodded; her eyes slightly veiled with tears.

-Detective Lestrade had to knock down the door. I'll never forget that day- said Mrs. Hudson without adding anything else.

Sherlock respected the woman's silence, drinking his tea now cold, giving her time to recover.

-After about eight months he told me that he would leave the apartment and that the Detective had kindly offered him to share his house.

He had even brought some empty boxes for his things... Then a couple of days later he told me that he had changed his mind and that he had decided to stay.

Since that day things have been slowly improving, although there are still dark days...-comment the woman.

-Is it true that John still has all my things? – Sherlock asked.

Mrs. Hudson nodded.

"He only packed your forensic equipment, the rest is still where you left it" she said, sighing.

Sherlock felt on him Mrs. Hudson's gaze and met the woman's eyes.

"Do you know what day it is tomorrow?"she asked.

Sherlock nodded.

"I would usually have had Detective Lestrade accompany me to the cemetery to bring flowers to your grave, but given your presence here, I think I'm going to skip the appointment this year" said the woman, making the detective smile.

"And how will you explain it to John?" he asked.

-John won't be home until Wednesday night.

Besides, we don't talk... we don’t talk about you, dear-she told him slightly embarrassed.

Sherlock looked down; a little bit annoyed.

Although he didn’t want to admit it, those words had hurt him: was it so easy to forget him?

One hand reached out on the table and covered one of his, leading him to look up.

-Don’t be upset. It's a protective mechanism.

It's too painful for John to even say your name, so he stopped saying it out loud, but that doesn't mean he forgot you – said Mrs. Hudson trying to make him understand John’s behavior.

Sherlock nodded his head.

"Do you know where John goes every Tuesday night?" he asked her.

It had been an attempt, that stealthy behavior did not seem typical of his former roommate, so he had little hope that the woman in front of him could give him any answers, so he was astonished when the woman nodded.

-I can't tell you anything about it, except that you'd be very proud of it. As I am- she added.

Sherlock merely nodded, even though he had not come any closer to solving the puzzle.

He remained silent, letting his gaze wander through the kitchen, posing on the photo of the famous Jack; Mrs. Hudson followed him gaze and laughed merrily.

"Sherlock, stop looking at it like this!" she scolded him.

The man returned to look at her, with an expressionless face.

-Jack is a lovely guy-informed him Mrs. Hudson.

"That’s what everyone keeps telling me, but that doesn't mean I have to like him" the angry man retorted.

"You have no reason to feel threatened" the woman reassured him.

"What a nonsense!" muttered Sherlock, taking his hand away from the woman's hold standing up, starting to walk back and forth in the small kitchen.

Mrs. Hudson smiled knowingly.

-Even he felt threatened by you at first-she confessed- Your apartment still has all your belongings, John does not allow anyone to go in your room or sit in your chair, but he has not said your name since your disappearance.

I was the one who told him something about you...-she confessed.

-He went around collecting information about me from anyone who was willing to give it to him" the detective complained.

-Sherlock don't use that mean tone! You should be grateful!

If it wasn't for Mr. Micheals, I really don't know what would have happened to...- she said without finishing the sentence.

Sherlock turned and saw her carrying a hand to her mouth, holding back a sob; he then approached the woman and crouched beside her, placing a hand on her knee.

-I'm sorry Mrs. Hudson, I was a little rude- apologized Sherlock.

The woman shook her head, minimizing the incident as usual.

"So, what did you tell him about me?"urged Sherlock again.

"That you were a truly stubborn man and that only John was able to make you a little more polite" said the woman with a slight smile, "But also that you were brilliant and that once someone gained your trust and affection it was forever-continued Mrs. Hudson.

Sherlock looked down for an instant.

"You always had too high an opinion of me Mrs. Hudson-- commented half-voiced.

"I’m never wrong, dear" she retorted, snatching another smile from him.

"Did he ask you about me and John?" he asked again.

Mrs. Hudson nodded.

-And what did you say? -

The woman shrugged.

-Sherlock... No one knows better than me that although your feelings towards each other are very strong, nothing ever happened between you two.

Don't forget that my bedroom is right above yours, I would have known if something had happened- she reminded him.

Sherlock returned to his upright position and glanced at the clock at the wall in front of him.

-I'd better go-

Mrs. Hudson stood up as well and preceded him in the small foyer, stopping at the door.

It was obvious that she wanted to ask him something, but that she did not know how to do it, and Sherlock decided to help her.

"I'll see you soon, Mrs. Hudson I promise you”

The woman smiled slightly and opened the door, then step aside to let him out.

______________________________

Although his intentions were to stay awake by the window to catch a brief glimpse of John returning from the club with Lestrade, the weariness of the past days and the jet leg got the better of him.

He collapsed on the bed fully clothed, without bothering to slip under the covers or take off his shoes, and when he awoke a muscle contraction, now familiar, at the base of his neck gave him his good morning.

In recent years he had learned to sleep on every possible occasion, in the worst beds he had ever imagined, from a bench by a railway in Paris to a sleeping bag in a park in Bucharest next to a homeless man who kept humming ever the same song.

Although Mycroft had always made available to him "safe" apartments, Sherlock felt the need to blend in with the crowd, to make himself invisible, because only in that way he would really be able to find his target.

No one ever notices a stranger in the crowd.

He stretched and approached the window, watching the sky slightly covered with gray clouds and the crowd mingling in the streets of Marylbone.

The detective had made a big leap forward thanks to his relationship with Mycroft...

Knowing his brother's refined tastes, he was certain that almost nothing of the old bachelor's apartment at Elephant & Castle had found a place at the one he now shared with the British government.

He walked to the bathroom and looked in the mirror: that hair was unwatchable, he absolutely had to fix it.

He recalled the comment that Mycroft had let himself get away the day before and looked around in the bathroom, finding what he was looking for in a cabinet above the toilet.

There should been no chance of error that day.

He wanted to be recognizable at first glance.

The one and only Sherlock Holmes.

He undressed and got into the shower under the hot water jet, taking care of his own hair until they were back to the original color, then focusing on sore muscles, and coming out of the shower only when the water began to cool slightly.

He distractedly wiped himself with one of the various white towels available and looked into the small mirror above the sink, recognising himself for the first time in months; he performed the morning ablutions, brushing his teeth and carefully shaving and come out of the bathroom, pausing a few moments in front of the two-door closet that occupied part of the bedroom.

Two suits were neatly hung on crutches and various shirts were folded into one of the shelves below, clearly fresh from tailoring, next to underwear; but what caught his eye was his coat.

His coat wrapped in a cellophane bag of the dry-cleaning service.

He pulled it out of the closet cautiously and observed it: it had been three years since he had last worn it, and all that time he had felt naked, as if another part of himself had passed away.

He lifted the cellophane and observed the garment, checking that everything was in order, that it had not suffered any damage during those years and then laid it on bed.

He then turned to the closet and chose a grey suit and a black shirt, along with the underwear.

He quickly dressed and fixed his hair, still slightly damp, then retrieved the keys of 221B Baker Street from the now useless black jacket, his mobile phone and wallet before leaving the apartment, hoping of never seeing it again.

Out in the street he looked around for a cab and stopped the first one he saw coming his way.

-New Scotland Yard- said to the cabbie once he closed the door.

_______________________________________

Sitting at his desk, Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade returned to focus on the reports he holds in his hands, despite having lost concentration a couple of times, reading the same line several times without storing the information.

His whole team knew that today was a special day, when his only goal was to survive, to get to the end of the day without receiving that phone call that made him tense every time he heard the phone ringing, and that's why they tried to make his life easy, to make themselves silent and almost invisible.

That morning, when he got up the apartment was empty: both John and Mycroft had already left; he had tried to call his fiancé to offer him his support , to remind him that though Mycroft had never seemed mournful after Sherlock’s death, Greg was there in case he needed him.

He had obviously tried to contact John, but he wasn't surprised when his call was transferred to voicemail.

His friend would have been unreachable all day.

And that silence was what scared Greg the most... More than tears, tremors, sudden bursts of anger or those few episodes of pain masquerading as madness.

He was a policeman, he knew how to handle the pain, but he was helpless in front of the wall of silence that John had built around him and that gigantic phantom he never talked about.

Sherlock.

Unable to stand idle and in need of information, he had called Jack Micheals and asked if he could go to John's office and make sure that the man was okay.

The military man, perhaps sensing that this was a special day, had agreed and promise Greg to let him have news as soon as possible.

But there was a feeling that Greg couldn't shake off himself: the certainty that there was something different.

That morning, when he had phoned Mrs. Hudson to ask her what time he had to pick her up to accompany her to the cemetery, the woman had kindly thanked him, but had informed him that that year she would do without that visit.

His first thought had gone to Mrs. Hudson's uncertain health, but the woman had reassured him and told him that she simply did not consider it necessary.

The conversation ended soon after, leaving Greg confused and full of questions.

Mrs. Hudson considered Sherlock a son, and in all those years she had never missed a visit to the cemetery on the anniversary of Sherlock’s death.

What had happened? Why did she take that decision, especially on that day?

That feeling had haunted him all morning, despite trying to get rid of it with some bad coffee and a couple of cigarettes.

He was sitting at his desk, trying to focus on yet another report, when outside the door of his office he felt a slight commotion that he did not take much notice: probably Donovan and Anderson had found another reason to quarrel; the situation between them had remained tense after the end of their relationship and almost every day the two were at each other’s throat.

Greg raised his head unsure whether to leave the office and impose his authority on the two, when a silhouette caught his eye.

He would have recognised that profile everywhere, but it was impossible for him to be there at Scotland Yard.

It was physically impossible!

Still, that ghost moved confidently, amid disbelieving and petrified agents, clearly headed for his office; for an instant Greg thought about the gun he stored in his desk drawer, but he was not fast enough.

Without knocking, the familiar yet estranged man opened the door of his office and stood in the doorway, and in that instant the Detective understood.

He understood what had caused that nagging sensation at the base of the neck that had tormented him all morning.

He understood why Mycroft had disappeared so early that morning and could not be reach in any way, leaving it to Anthea to filter out his phone calls.

He also understood why Mrs. Hudson had not wanted to visit the cemetery...

In the seven years of their friendship, Sherlock Holmes had repeatedly accused him of being an idiot, yet it took him a moment to put the pieces together.

Three years late.

-Detective...- the man greeted him; a hand still clasped around the door handle.

-Sherlock…-

The man took the few steps that separated him from the two chairs in front of the desk and dropped on one, crossing his long legs and crossing his arms to his chest.

"You don't know how much I'd like to punch you right now" Greg said without looking away from his unexpected guest.

-Why don't you do that? Are you afraid of my brother? -he teased him.

Greg flashed a smile and shook his head.

-Mycroft would pay my bail and then give me some medal... The only reason I'm holding back is because I want John to do it- he answered honestly.

Sherlock answered a wry smile and for a moment was on the verge of saying that John would never beat him, only if repeatedly solicited.

But now everything was different...

-Now I understand why Mrs. Hudson didn’t want a lift to the cemetery...

Who knew of your fake death? -Greg asked.

He needed to know how idiotic he was.

"Only Mycroft and Molly... " answered the detective.

-Molly? Molly Dimmock? -asked surprised Greg.

Sherlock rolled his eyes annoyed.

"Do you know any other, inspector?" he asked.

"Mrs. Hudson only found out yesterday.

I'm surprised you are not surprised at your boyfriend's involvement in this set-up- he added.

Greg heave a sigh.

"No one has the resources of the British government... - he commented.

The two men remained silent for a few moments, both with an important question to ask the other.

"This is all about Moriarty, right?"asked Lestrade.

Sherlock remained silent a few moments, something Greg had seen only a few times; even during his investigation Sherlock Holmes was always moving, immersed in his reasoning voiced out loud and his sharp comments.

-Three snipers- he finally answered.

Lestrade frowned.

-One for Mrs. Hudson, one for you... And one for John.

After Moriarty's suicide, the only way to stop them was my death- he explained.

"That's why you jumped off the roof" Greg said.

"Obviously,” Sherlock retorted without acrimony.

"And these three years of absence?"asked the inspector again.

-I had to make sure there was no one who could attempt to John's life before I could return.

My mere presence could put him in danger...-Sherlock added almost talking to himself.

An ironic sound escaped from the inspector's closed lips, leading Sherlock to arch an eyebrow.

-Well, I’m sorry to disappoint you, but gratitude is John's last feeling toward you-commented Greg.

Sherlock's eyes sharpened, a harsh expression on his face.

-I understand I will have to deal with John's anger when... - he began in a confident voice, interrupting himself when he saw Lestrade shaking his head.

-Anger? Yes, that will be the initial reaction.

In fact, he will probably be as disbelieving as I was first, then of course he will get furious and I sincerely hope he punches you for me too, but be prepared because then there will be rejection... I wouldn't be surprised if he decided not to speak to you again" he said.

Sherlock tried to hide the fear that those words had caused him behind a mask of superiority.

"Detective don't be ridiculous" he said.

Greg gave him a sardonic smile.

"You don't believe me, do you?" he asked, his gaze fixed on the man on the other side of the desk staring at him silently for a few moments.

-Sherlock with your immense intelligence you decided that jumping off a roof was the only possible solution to save our lives...-

"It was the only way!" snapped Sherlock slightly angry.

-And I have no reason to believe otherwise.

In fact, maybe I should thank you for saving my life somehow...

But when you jumped off that roof... Damn Sherlock did you stop for a moment to think about what your suicide would mean for John? -Greg asked, letting his irritation shine through for the first time.

"I did what I thought was the right thing" the other man said.

A bitter laugh rang out in the room.

-The right thing for whom?

Certainly not for me that I spent two years dealing with car thefts and burglaries, for you that had to travel the world becoming a killer, or for John...-

Lestrade took a deep breath, trying to calm down, standing up and laying both hands on his hips, staring again at the other's imperturbable face.

"Do you have any idea of the guilt that John carries with him?" he asked.

Sherlock frowned slightly.

“The love of his life dies before his eyes... It's only natural that he keeps wondering what he could have say or do to avoid it" Greg said.

** _The love of his life..._ **

-John and I are just friends... - Sherlock hastened to make clear, trying to ward off the warmth that those words had provoked in him, the hope that foolishly had sprouted inside him.

Lestrade sighed.

-Sherlock you may be a genius, but sometimes you're really an idiot- he simply said.

Before one of them could add anything else, Greg’s cell phone rang and, after taking a look at the screen, Greg answered, turning his back on Sherlock.

-Lestrade.

Hi, Jack…-

Sherlock's attention focused on the phone call as soon as he heard that name, leading him to stare intently at the inspector's back.

Moments later, Greg turns around and met the detective's gaze and stared him down with two furious eyes.

-Okay, thank you. I'll try to stop by as soon as possible" he said, ending the phone call.

Greg passed a hand through his short grey hair and went back to look at Sherlock.

-You're such an idiot Sherlock. You never learn, do you? -he asked.

Before Sherlock could say anything two shots were knocked on the door and few moments later Donovan appeared on the door.

-There was a murder. Vauxhall Bridge...-she informed Greg, stealing a quick glance at Sherlock.

Lestrade nodded, taking his coat and retrieving the gun from the drawer, then quickly exited the office.

"Call John and give him the address of the crime scene" he said to Donovan.

Only a few moments later did he notice that Sherlock was by his side; he turned around and stood in the middle of the room, facing him.

"What do you think you’re doing?" Greg asked, holding Sherlock’s gaze despite the obvious difference in height.

"I come with you, obviously" said Sherlock.

Lestrade shook his head.

"I don't think so" he retorted, turning around and heading back to the elevator.

"Come on Lestrade, you know you need me" said Sherlock, hearing his voice ring out in the room completely silent, even though it was full of people sitting at the desks.

Greg paused and stood still for a few moments, fighting the impulse to punch him in front of his subordinates.

He turned and slowly walk back to the detective, again looking in his blue eyes.

-The last case I allowed you to work on almost cost me my career.

Do I need you? Yeah, probably, as I think all the others at Scotland Yard do.

But you don't care about this murder, and we both know...

If I see you wandering around my crime scenes, I swear I'll get you arrested and even Mycroft can go to hell!" he said, raising his voice slightly.

Greg held Sherlock's gaze for a few more moments before turning around and quickly heading for the elevator.

That day couldn’t get any worse…

________________________________

** _It was just a day like any_ ** **other.**

**_It was just a day like any_****other**.

John had to keep repeating it to himself, and maybe that day would pass faster.

Besides, what was different that day?

The routine was the same as every Tuesday: he had woken up that morning with a mild headache, as a reminder of the previous night, which he had quickly driven away with a couple of aspirins; he had dressed quickly and had come to work, ready to put his knowledge and gifts at the service of children with running noses and elderly people whose real problem was loneliness.

It was just a day like any other, he repeated to himself sitting behind his desk.

After all, he didn't need an anniversary to miss Sherlock... Not when everything in his apartment reminded him of his former roommate.

That morning, when he arrived at work, he had shown himself affable with everyone, showing off his friendly smile and managing to exchange a few words with Stephanie, the receptionist, and promising her that they would find the time for a coffee break together, before locking themselves in his office.

He had settled behind the desk, with a cup of coffee next to his phone, his white coat on and took a deep breath.

It was just another day... Nothing different from the thousand and ninety-five days gone by.

Before the visits began, he had made a quick phone call to Mrs. Hudson to make sure that she was okay and that nothing had happened during his absence.

His landlady seemed particularly in a good mood and John smiled, despite his own melancholy: he was happy that the elderly woman had begun to move on with her own life, not to let herself be torn down by that day as had happened previously.

Life goes on...

He avoided asking her what her plans were for that day and promised her that he would do everything he could to stop by to Baker Street even just for a greeting or a cup of tea.

But they both knew that John would avoid the apartment like the plague that day...

After the phone call with Mrs. Hudson, John threw himself into his work, showing his affable and loving side to every patient who set foot in his office, even managing to exchange some joke with a 13-year-old boy embarrassed by an overly apprehensive mother.

No one would have imagined that there was anything different about him.

That he was grieving...

Every time that thought ran through his mind, John couldn’t hold back a sad smile: how could he be grieving?

He wasn't a widower; Sherlock wasn't his husband or his partner.

Knowing Sherlock that option would never have been available even if he had been still alive.

But then why couldn't he help but associate that sense of emptiness with the loss of his loved one?

Every time those thoughts gripped him, John shook his head and let a new patient in, trying to make himself useful.

It was just a day like any other...

The morning passed quickly and only around one o'clock he was able to take a break.

He walked to the small staff room and made himself a tea, pulling his cell phone out of his pocket.

It had been off all day and for a moment he was tempted to turn it back on, but then he put aside that idea: he wasn't ready for Greg and Harry's words of circumstance.

The kettle had gone off and John mechanically took a cup, then poured scalding water into it.

"Can I join you?" said a well-known voice behind him, causing him to jolt.

John looked over his shoulder and smiled: a tall man was leaning against the door jamb.

-This room is reserved for doctors...-he scolded him but took another cup from the cabinet for his guest.

He felt the man move behind him, coming up to him, the steps made heavy by his boots.

Without even seeing him, John could guess his posture: his back straight, his hands sunk into the pockets of his jeans, a smile on his face.

-I have a special permit. A friend of mine works here, and then I suspect the receptionist has a crush on me-said to justify his presence in the reserved area.

John tried to hold back a laugh: Stephanie had completely lost her mind for Jack since she first saw him, despite her suspicion that there was more to him and Dr Watson than friendship.

\- Poor thing, she really has no idea...- John simply commented, adding milk in both cups.

The next moment two strong arms tightened around his hips, and a solid chest was against his back.

His first reaction was surprise, he was almost tempted to break away, but then he understood the true meaning of that gesture and let himself go against that known, solid and friendly body.

John forgot the tea for a few moments and let himself be lulled, his eyes closed for a few moments, forgetting where he was and how ambiguous it would have seemed that exchange if a colleague had entered the room suddenly.

Although Jack didn't know much about his past or Sherlock, except what information he had managed to get from his friends, he was aware that this was a particular day, that on this date something shocking happened, something that had turned him into what he was now.

**John H. Watson 2.0**

"Thank you" he simply said, opening his eyes.

"You know that I’ll take every chance to put my hands on you... - Jack joked with a smile in his voice.

John smiled and the next moment he broke away from the hug, handing a cup of tea to his friend.

"Shouldn't you be at work?" he asked as he approached the coffee table in the middle of the room.

The man shrugged.

-Not everyone does office hours, John- he just answered.

Watson nodded, bringing the cup to his lips for a small sip.

"So, what did I miss last night?” asked Jack.

-Not much.

It's been a bit of a lackluster evening. Greg got more offers than me, but obviously he turned them all down.

His loyalty to Mycroft is almost cloying- comment John before taking another sip.

Jack smiled ironically.

"When are you going to tell him that you're aware of their relationship?" he asked.

The doctor shrugged.

It had been easy to piece together the pieces of the puzzle: he was aware of Greg's bisexuality by the end of his marriage, thanks to one of their alcoholic evenings, then there had been The Fall and months of total darkness in which he had failed to even remember his name, much less the world around him.

When he finally regained full consciousness of himself, he had noticed some small changes that had taken place in Greg, starting from the smile that illuminated him every time he received a text, the smell of the different aftershave, ending with the clearly more expensive shirts.

You don't spend two years of your life with Sherlock Holmes without learning the tricks... or at least some of them.

The connection had not been immediate, but it had become obvious when Greg moved into the new apartment in Marylbone, clearly above his economic possibilities, and posh enough to fit into Mycroft’s tastes.

"I'm happy for Greg, he's one of my best friends, but the less contact I have with Mycroft the better it is" he said.

-To hear it, you seem to be talking about M- Jack said.

John laughed.

-Sort of…- he simply said.

Silence descended between them for a few moments, both engaged with their teacups, until Jack spoke again.

"I know you already have plans for tonight but are you sure you don't want some company?" he asked when he met the doctor's eyes.

John held that look for a few moments and then shook his head.

-No thanks. It's something I feel I must do on my own" John said.

"But if you want, you can join me at Sarah's when I'm done-he offered.

John was truly grateful for Greg, Sarah, Jack and Mrs. Hudson who had supported his project during those years and had never done anything to discourage him, indeed trying in every way possible to help him when he was losing hopes, or the difficulties seemed insurmountable.

But it was something that only concerned him... Something he owed Sherlock.

The man nodded and smiled.

-I'm going to bring something to eat. You know I don't trust Sarah's kitchen- Jack said twisting his mouth.

"Did I hear my name?" a female voice said.

The two men turned almost in unison to the door watching Sarah enter the room.

Sarah Sawyer, wearing the typical white coat, approached the table next to John and bent down to give him a slight kiss on the cheek, then laid a brown package next to the man.

"Jack was complaining about your cooking," John explained with an amused smile.

The woman rolled her eyes, approaching the small refrigerator and pulling out a bottle of water.

"Are you still mad at me for that roast beef thing?" he asked.

That was anything but a roast beef, Sarah.

I saw less burnt pieces of coal" Jack retorted.

-No one forced you to eat it! -

-You should know by now how much I'm well-behaved... Even at the cost of ruining my liver-answered Jack with a smile.

John let go of a slight laugh, then glanced at the package Sarah had left next to him.

"It’s for you," Sarah said in anticipation of his question.

John met her eyes, clearly surprised.

"Stephanie gave it to me.

She told me you were here and asked if I could bring it to you- explained the woman before taking a sip from her bottle.

"I can see your secretary is not nosy at all...” Jack said ironic.

John returned to look at the package: it was simple, wrapped in brown paper with transparent scotch, but what it struck him was the handwriting with which his name had been written.

There was something familiar about that handwriting that gave him goosebumps.

“It's impossible..." he scolded himself.

"John is everything all right?" he heard.

He looked up, encountering Jack’s gaze, and remained silent, not knowing how to respond.

"Do you want me to open it for you?"asked the man again, the friendly expression abandoned in favor of typically military professionalism.

The doctor shook his head, feeling Sarah’s presence next to him.

Without any care, he tore up the wrapping paper and discovered a simple, white box.

He lifted the lid, and the instant he first glanced inside, he gasped.

He would recognize it everywhere.

Almost without realizing it, he stood up and, without his cane, took a few tentative steps around the room, feeling on himself the worried gaze of his friends.

"John what's going on?" asked Jack, clearly worried.

Sarah glanced inside the box and approached him, putting both hands on his shoulders.

-Breathe- she said with a soothing voice.

Takes deep breaths, John- she said to him, catching his gaze, and working hard to make the man not let himself fell into a panic attack.

John closed his eyes and passed a hand over his forehead.

"It’s impossible" he muttered.

It was a joke, a mean tasteless joke!

If Mycroft was behind all this, then not even all the MI6 staff would have been able to stop him when he would have got his hands on that bastard.

Trying to breathe he turned around Sarah and approached the table, looking again at the contents of the box.

Sitting at the bottom there was a midnight blue scarf.

John pulled it out, clutching it with trembling fingers, and watched it: how many times had he seen it hanging from the Baker Street peg, or carelessly abandoned on the floor of Sherlock's living room or bedroom?

How many times had he seen it around the pale neck of the only detective consultant in the world?

It was the same John had no doubts.

He had wondered all those years about what had happened to it and to the black coat that was tied to the image he had of his best friend.

All these years he had been convinced that Mycroft had made them disappear and the sudden reappearance of the scarf was crushing proof of his theory.

Without thinking, regardless of the worried looks of the two friends next to him, John brought the scarf to his face and almost immediately closed his eyes when a smell he believed lost forever invaded his nostrils.

Sherlock...

That scent of spices, tobacco and aftershave that he would forever associate with his best friend.

When he opened his eyes again, he had to blink several times to make the watery veil that clouded his vision disappear.

She met Sarah's gaze and read the same emotion: she was probably the only one aware of the feelings that bound him to man.

She was the first to understand them, perhaps already that distant evening of their disastrous date.

"There's something else in the box" Jack said.

The muffled sensation that seemed to have enveloped John disappeared instantly, and the doctor moved toward the table, spotting a small envelope at the bottom of the box.

Clutching the scarf in one hand, he cautiously took it between his fingers, as if he were afraid that it might vanish under his eyes if he moved too quickly.

Inside, there was only a white card with three words written on it.

"_One_ _last miracle"_

Disbelief took over again, coupled with a sense of bewilderment.

John dropped the card to the ground, and for an instant looked around, as if he were a hunted animal looking for an escape route.

He felt the blood throbbing in his ears and was only slightly aware that his chest was moving jerkily.

Clutching his fingers convulsively around the scarf, he walked to the door of the staff room, hearing someone call his name in the distance.

Dragging behind his leg John cross the hallway, and he made his way to the exit, and only when he was outside, he allowed his body to gave in.

John fell against the nearest wall, sitting on the gray pavement, slightly covered with leaves, his legs folded at his chest.

He rested his arm on his knees and hid his face there, trying to hide that moment of weakness from the sight of strangers and colleagues.

It was impossible...

It wasn't really happening!

His mind had started playing tricks on him. And what better day than that to go completely crazy?

Still, it couldn't be just his imagination, could it?

He looked up at the scarf he still held tightly between his fingers and took a deep breath.

He had to calm down and try to rationalize what was going on.

John breathed deeply a couple of times and concluded: there could only be one person behind what was going on.

The great puppeteer who enjoyed playing with the fates of the country and their lives.

Mycroft Holmes.

There was no other explanation.

Sherlock's scarf had disappeared on the day of The Fall and seeing it reappear now meant it had always been in the possession of the oldest Holmes.

Pulling it out now and having fun tormenting him like that was just further proof of the man's sick and twisted sense of humor.

**"One last miracle..."**

Even those words hadn't surprised him that much.

He had spent the last three years of his life cleaning up the apartment every week to avoid any possible interference in his life from Mycroft, yet he had managed to meddle in something extremely personal, the last private moment he had had with Sherlock.

John wouldn't forgive him for that.

Moderately calmer, he brought the scarf back to his face, inhaling again the scent he had felt terribly lacking in those years.

John was certain that if he entered Sherlock's room, he would still find it there, bottled as if it should be put on the market, but he was aware that his nerves would not hold up.

He closed his eyes and let himself go to a shaking breath.

_Oh Sherlock…_

And guilt reappeared back to the pit of his stomach, as overbearing and fierce as during the first year.

If only I'd got on the roof... If I'd done anything to stop him...

And instead he had stood there, staring at that ledge to watch him die, almost as guilty as Moriarty.

-John…-

He looked up and saw Jack a few steps away from him.

A sympathetic smile appeared on the man's face instantly, and John realized he didn’t need to say anything, that words were not necessary.

Jack approached him like he would a wounded animal and sat next to him, putting his arm around his shoulders and pulling him closed to himself.

Clinging to the scarf like it was his only lifeline, John rested his head against his friend's right shoulder as a broken sigh escaped from his slightly open lips.

Jack’s fingers caressed him softly an arm, trying to calm him down, to bring him back to reality, to reassure him that despite what had just happened, there would always be someone ready to pick up the pieces and help him move forward.

"Thank you" said John for the second time that day, sincerely happy for the presence of the man next to him and in his life.

Jack hinted a smile, pulling John more against him.

-Dr. Watson? -

The two men looked up at the entrance to the clinic and seeing Stephanie a few steps away, John managed a slight smile, trying to ease the embarrassment that was clearly painted on the woman's face.

-Yes, Stephanie? -

-Sergeant Donovan just called.

They asked if he could meet them at Vauxhall Bridge- she said, clearly sorry to have interrupted that moment of intimacy.

John nodded.

-Thank you. Can you tell Dr. Sawyer that I have to leave for a couple of hours? -he asked her with a friendly tone.

The girl nodded before turning around and going back inside the clinic.

John took a deep breath and took his military pose, straightening his back and neck muscles.

He wouldn't let Mycroft tear him apart...

Jack stood up and held out his hand to help him get up.

-I have my bike.

If you want, I can give you a lift... You'll save time- Jack offered.

It was clear that he did not want to leave him alone, and John nodded appreciating the offer and its implications.

-Give me a few minutes to change and I’ll find you.

__________________________

Following the directions Donovan had left for him to Stephanie, John and Jack had arrived near Vauxhall station and had stopped the bike in the area surrounded by police tape blocking passers-by from a large zone between Kennington Lane and South Lambeth Road.

A policeman had seen them approaching from afar and, acknowledging John had lifted the tape to let him through.

-He's with me- John informed the cop, allowing Jack to get into the delimited area.

John spotted the body on the ground on the pavement and headed in that direction.

-So that's what you do in your spare time... - murmured Jack, taking the piss at him-Never tried something quieter, like chess? -

John flashed him a smile and recognized Greg among the various cops who were busy at the crime scene.

The detective met his gaze and walked towards them; even from that distance, John was able to read the concern in the strained shoulders and the surprise painted on Greg’s face when he spotted Jack at his side.

"Thank you for coming John..." Greg said when he was in front of them, before nodding to Jack.

John nodded.

"I have to go back to the clinic, so we better hurry up" he said.

"What happened to him?"

He was found by some passers-by on their way to the underground; at first, they thought it was a bum, but then they noticed the blood and realized they had to call us.

His name was Andrew Smith, forty-six years old and he was born in Cork- Greg informed him.

John nodded, then a silhouette caught his eye, causing him to clench his jaw in a harsh expression.

"Send Anderson away" he said to the inspector.

Greg glanced behind his shoulder and nodded.

"He was doing the last photographs" Greg said, dropping midsentence, aware that it would be pointless to continue.

Despite years gone by, Anderson’s presence still bothered John.

Differing from Donovan, who had come to see him in the hospital and had apologised for her involvement in the events leading up to The Fall helping progressing their relationship into a friendship, Anderson had never shown the slightest remorse for what had happened.

And despite years gone by, it was still hard for John not to vent his anger on that idiotic, smug face.

The doctor stood on the sidelines, waiting for the right moment to approach the corpse, and only when he saw Anderson and the forensic team leave decided to come forward.

At a first glance the cause of death seemed obvious: a slightly coagulated blood stain spread across the pavement by the man’s head but extracting a pair of latex gloves from his pocket, John crouched, carefully folding his stiff leg and examined the body.

The man’s clothes were well kept, clearly ironed the day before, a slight hint of beard began to be seen on his cheeks and at first glance there was no evident sign of injections, but John was aware that those could hide in the most unexpected places.

John leaned more on his body and checked that there were no marks around his neck and when he lifted slightly the collar of the trench coat and shirt John saw a purple bruise no bigger than a penny: a hickey, and judging by the discoloration it must have been done no more than twenty-four hours before.

No other marks were evident around the neck and there were no obvious bruises on the man’s face.

But something caught John's attention, leading him to lift the man's left hand: his knuckles were slightly scratched.

Had he fought with his attacker?

John quickly discarded that hypothesis as an idea lit up in his brain.

He got up slowly, resting much of his weight on his cane and walked to Greg.

"Was it an assault with the purpose of robbery?"the inspector asked.

John shook his head, taking off his latex gloves.

-That's what they want to make it look like, but he was already dead before someone hit him on the head.

If I were you, I would look in the clubs where S&M sex is practiced, especially private and exclusive clubs- said John.

Greg look at him in disbelief, leading John to shrug his shoulders.

-The clothes are high fashion, clearly expensive, and you have found his personal items on the corpse.

I bet there was a lot of cash and many credit cards in his wallet, and if it was a robbery, you wouldn’t have found any of it.

Also, his cell phone was in the inner pocket of the jacket.

He has various bruises on his left and right hand and I'm pretty sure you'll find more on his knees...-

"Submission?"asked Greg, stopping taking notes for a moment to look at his friend.

Again, John shrugged.

-It’s possible.

Sometimes men of a certain status have these kinds of impulses, if we want to call them that...

He has a hickey on his neck, done no later than thirty-six hours ago" he added.

"So, what do you think?" asked Greg, placing the notepad in his trench coat pocket.

"He probably had a heart attack and the person who was with him freaked out and to avoid problems called security and they got rid of the body, staging the ill-conceived robbery "John said.

A smile appeared on Greg's face.

"What?"asked John.

Greg shook his head, lowering his gaze.

"It’s nice to solve a case without being called idiots every five seconds" he said.

John thinned his lips, fully understanding the meaning of those words, and gave a brief nod to his friend.

-Okay if there's nothing else... - he just said, turning around and walking towards Jack who had waited patiently in the corner.

Now that his task was over, he couldn't wait to get out of there: the adrenaline rush he always felt on those occasions was short-lived, making him realize that his presence at the crime scenes was wrong, that he was clearly out of place surrounded by police and forensic officers.

And yet, he had never felt like that when he was with Sherlock...

Just thinking of the detective's name reminded him of the presence of the scarf in the right pocket of his jacket and led him to turn around again and take the few steps that separated him from Greg, who observed him surprised.

-Do me a favor.

Tell Mycroft to stay out of my life- he told him in a serious tone.

Greg frowned.

"I made it clear more than once that I don’t want anything to do with your boyfriend and what he did today was unbecoming and mean even for him" the doctor added.

-Hold a minute, John! Calm down...

What are you talking about? -Greg asked, clearly confused.

He was surprised that John was aware of his relationship with Mycroft and wanted to ask him so many questions, but it was clear that this was not the right time.

John let out an exasperated sigh and opened the right pocket of his jacket, pulling out the scarf and showing it to the detective.

Just looking at his friend's incredulous stare was enough to know that there was no need for further explanation.

-John... – began Greg.

"It was really fucked up Greg!" said John, raising his voice slightly. -Especially today... - he added after a moment trying to control himself.

The detective remained silent, supporting his friend's gaze and seemed to be about to say something, but John prevented him, turning his back, the scarf still clenched between his fingers.

"It wasn't Mycroft" Greg said, out loud, so the doctor could hear him.

John froze.

-Mycroft may be a bastard, I agree, but he would never have done something like that, especially not today.

In his twisted manner he was always worried about you and if that scarf had really been in his possession, then you would have had it a long time before, maybe even three years ago- continued Greg pleading for the man's cause.

John's shoulders arched slightly to those words, trying to fight them, to not listen to them.

He needed an enemy, someone to blame, otherwise that sudden reappearance wouldn't make sense and he would really start to fear for his mental health.

-Think about it John. Who do you know who is equally dramatic? -Greg asked him again.

The doctor shook his head.

It's impossible...

Then suddenly he raised his head to meet Greg’ eyes.

**"One last miracle"**

If it wasn't Mycroft then Greg would have been right.

There was only one explanation.

" **Once the impossible is _eliminated,_ _what_ _remains, no_ matter how_ unlikely, must be the truth_****_."_**

How many times had you heard that?

John turned to the Inspector and stared at him for a few moments, reading in his eyes all he needed to know and shook his head.

"No" he muttered.

-John…-did Greg by stepping towards him.

"NO!"exclaimed the doctor once more, clearly upset.

He felt a presence behind him and did not need to turn around to know that Jack was beside him.

John looked down on the ground, aware that he had the eyes of all the officers on the spot fixed on him and tightened his grip more around the handle of his cane.

He took a deep breath, trying to calm down and looked up at Greg, who hadn't stopped looking at him for a moment.

"Where is he?" John asked.

The inspector shrugged his shoulders, before letting go of a frustrated sigh.

-As far as I know he might as well be here...-

John passed his hand over his face trying to drive away that feeling of unreality that seemed to have taken hold of him.

He turned his back on the Detective and went through the various cops, who did not even try to show themselves busy, too curious about what was going on.

-Sherlock! -called John.

"_What the hell am I doing? I'm calling a dead man!_

_I'm really losing my mind!"_

"Sherlock!" he called again in a slightly louder voice.

He was about to give up and leave with his tail between his legs when suddenly a shadow moved from the edge of the restricted area and came forward.

Staring at the profile that was advancing towards him, John felt his body stiffen, unable to move, even to blink.

Sherlock was there.

In front of him.

With the same uncontrollable curly black hair, the pale face with pronounced cheekbones, the mouth with perfect lips.

He was wearing that damn coat, too.

His hands were sunk into his pockets and for an instant John wondered if they were wrapped in black leather gloves.

-Hello John-

That deep baritone voice he had heard so many times in his dreams and in his head during those three years...

It was those words that woke John from his lethargy and awaken the anger that had been dormant all that time.

With a few steps he was in front of the man and stared at him for a few seconds.

Sherlock was alive.

Perfectly healthy was standing in front of him.

Those three years had been another of his stupid jokes... Or worse, an experiment.

John didn't notice that he had raised his hand until he felt his fist hit Sherlock's left cheek and the slight grunt came out of the man's lips.

Heedless of the pain that spread almost instantly in his hand, he struck him again, this time in the stomach, without giving Sherlock time to recover, managing to throw him to the ground.

He struck him again and again, putting all the pain and neglect of those three years in every punch, until he felt two arms lift him from Sherlock's body.

John turned in anger, read to hit anyone who stopped him, but froze when he saw Jack.

The man placed his hand on his left shoulder and without saying anything he held out his walking stick.

John breathed deeply, trying to calm the tremor that shook his body and nodded.

He glanced at the man lying on the sidewalk who he had once considered another part of himself and heedless of the damage his blows had caused, John felt his jaw muscles contract into a harsh expression,

"Stay out of my life" John said, with what Sherlock always identified as "Captain" John Watson’s voice.

He then turned and walked to the bike, followed a short distance by Jack, without a further look at his so-called friend.

The blue scarf carelessly abandoned next to the body curled up on the pavement.

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	3. The sound of silence

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I didn't want your protection.
> 
> I wanted your trust.
> 
> But when it came to prove to me that I was important to you, you betrayed me.
> 
> And your presence here is a blatant confirmation of that betrayal"

He knew that there was something different the moment he opened the door at 221 Baker Street.

Sherlock was back.

He closed the door behind him and barely had time to put the keys into the pocket of his jacket that Mrs. Hudson came out of her flat.

-John…-

-Hello, Mrs. Hudson, how are you? -he asked her with a warm smile, which he reserved exclusively for the woman.

He saw her move the weight of her body from one foot to the other, embarrassed and clearly uncomfortable

If the idiot was back in the apartment, then Mrs. Hudson had seen his face bruised for his blows.

John put his hand on her shoulder and squeezed her lightly.

-John, dear why don't you come inside and get a cup of tea? - she asked him.

The doctor shook his head.

He knew that Mrs. Hudson loved him and Sherlock equally, just like a mother, and that she would do everything in her capacity to avoid the confrontation that would happen, as soon as the two would come face to face.

-Not now, Mrs. Hudson. I will come and visit you later, I promise- he said trying to reassure her.

The woman nodded, and started to say something else, but changed her mind and embraced him, lacing her arms around the man's square shoulders.

John stood motionless in the embrace for a few seconds before tightening his arms around Mrs. Hudson's waist, taking a deep breath.

His landlady pulled off slightly and looked him in the eye.

"Don't let anger take over" she said.

John clenched his jaw and nodded, ending the hug and then heading towards the seventeen steps that would lead him to his flat.

"Don't let the anger win..." John repeated to himself as he arrived at the door of the apartment, only to take a deep breath.

It was easier said than done...

At that moment every nerve in his body was tense, ready to shoot at the slightest provocation and John knew too well the detective to delude himself that it would not arrive at the same moment that that idiot had opened his mouth for the first time.

He clasped his fingers around the door handle and simply turned it to the right, certain it wasn't locked: Sherlock never locked the door of the apartment.

"**If I _did, I might_****_ lose customers, wouldn't you?"_**

The door opened slowly, and when John finally set foot in the apartment, he did so with his back deliberately turned to the living room.

He took off his scarf, jacket and shoes, took care to tuck his cell phone into one of the trouser pockets and then made his way to the kitchen.

Two eyes followed him closely, studying his every move, probably cataloguing all the information he could read in his posture or from what he could see of his face.

He wandered through the kitchen, rejoicing for a moment that it had not been turned back into a laboratory and approached the kettle, controlling the water level and then putting it on the stove.

He took his mug from the cupboard over the sink and put a tea bag into it.

In the meantime, he rotated his stiff shoulders and tried to loosen his aching back muscles.

It had been a long day, preceded by an almost sleepless night and his body began to feel it, after all he was forty years old... he should have taken more care of himself.

John stroked his chin and let his fingers slide over the beard that covered it, immersed in his thoughts.

He wanted to scream, throw the intruder out of the house, repeating once again that he didn't want anything to do with him anymore, but he knew it would be useless.

A confrontation would only lead to sarcastic responses, other frustration and anger.

His thoughts were interrupted by the insistent whistle of the kettle and with a mechanical move, he poured water into the mug watching as it quickly colored.

Those eyes were still fixed on him, insistent, intrusive, as if they wanted to make a hole in his back to get to his soul; force him with silence and the sole force of the gaze to turn around and face it.

John Watson was a soldier: he knew when it was worth throwing himself into the crossfire and doing everything possible to save what at first glance would seem a deathly situation, even at the cost of his own life.

He also knew when to back down.

And that was one of those occasions: nothing Sherlock could have told him, would have helped him.

Nothing would have given him back those three years; nothing would diminish the anger, guilt or all the feelings that stirred within him at the mere thought of Sherlock.

Clutching the cup in one hand he approached his own armchair and set the mug on the coffee table not far away.

He then turned and approached the iPhone dock station next to the fireplace and turned it on, selecting a song, letting the music fill the silence in the room and then returned to his chair and sit without grace.

John took the mug and set it on his left armrest, then leaned slightly toward the coffee table and took the paperback he had left there two days earlier.

He opened it and at the same time stretched his stiff leg on the wooden floor, as he had done so many times in those years, trying to relax regardless of those eyes that had not lost any of his actions.

John focused on the book he had in his hands and the music that had always helped him overcome the silence of the empty apartment and slowly forgot the presence of the intruder, until his cup of tea was empty.

Only then did he lift his eyes from his book and close it, leaving it once again on the table, getting up and heading towards the kitchen to put the cup in the sink.

On the short journey that would take him to the bathroom, he turned off the music and once inside, he closed the door behind him, locking it the next moment.

Only then did John let himself go.

With his back against the door, one shaking hand moved over his face, only realizing in that moment of the tremor that had taken hold of his body.

Why?

How could he do that to him? How could he have been so cruel disregarding completely his feelings?

A bitter sound came out of the slightly open lips: feelings...

Sherlock Holmes does not know of the existence of feelings, he probably removed them deeming them useless in favor of some stupid information about bees or the type of soil that was most likely to be found in a remote corner of London.

John approached the shower and opened the water, then began to undress.

He allowed himself a look in the mirror shuddering at the reflection that this sent him back.

It took just a few hours to tear down that complex armor he had built in those three years, leaving only one confused and wounded former soldier.

It was then that John promised himself that he would not permit it: he would not allow Sherlock to reduce him like that.

Not again.

______________________________________

Sherlock Holmes had returned to 221B Baker Street on Wednesday morning.

He knew John was at work, so he had a few hours to prepare for their encounter.

Their first meeting had not gone as he had hoped, leaving him with a cracked rib, some bruises on his face and a small cut right above his top lip.

Above all, it had left him confused and vulnerable with many questions crowding into his head unanswered.

He had not resisted, he had let John hit him repeatedly without even defending himself, because a part of his brain kept telling him that he deserved those blows, that John needed to vent his anger and that he would wait for the end of that shower of fists to speak, to make the doctor see reason.

John had to let him explain... He had to!

John didn't give him that honor.

He had been pulled away by the man in the photographs and had only given him one last look before walking away with him.

**"Stay out of my life!** "

Those words were ringing in his head almost like a death sentence.

John didn't want anything to do with him.

With a small groan he had sat up on the sidewalk and had brought a hand to his mouth, wiping the blood that had come out of a cut on his upper lip.

Hiding his feelings behind the usual detached and indifferent mask, he heard a motorcycle and looked up in time to see John leave on the bike, trying not to be overwhelmed by the panic that seemed to take hold of his person.

John needed time... He would return and he would be terribly magnanimous to grant him his forgiveness and time to hear the explanations that he was surely curious to know.

He had to.

Otherwise those three years had been in vain....

His hope was that he would not meet Mrs. Hudson, at least for a couple of hours, but he had to think again instantly: he had just closed the front door that the woman came out into the vestibule.

-Hello Mrs. Hudson-he greeted her.

The woman had observed the bruises and cuts framing his face and brought her hand to her mouth.

"They look worse than they actually are" Sherlock said, feeling the absurd urge to reassure her.

The woman had nodded, though it was clear that she did not believe his words.

-I’m home, Mrs. Hudson- he told her.

A slight smile had bent the woman's lips.

-Then go upstairs, dear...-she simply said.

Sherlock had ascended the small staircase and had took out the key of the flat from his coat pocket.

The door had opened slowly, squeaking slightly on the rusty hinges, and only when it was completely wide open, Sherlock had moved a step inside.

The apartment was clearly empty, but in perfect order.

Sherlock's gaze had moved quickly around the room, finding solace in the old furniture and what had remained the same during his absence and coming to terms with what had changed.

The armchairs and sofa were in the usual place, right next to the little coffee table clear of newspapers and the various takeaway boxes that had always hidden it from view previously.

There was a new stereo system, next to the fireplace, clearly modern given the presence of the IPod station visible in the center and a flat-screen television installed on the wall next to the window, a short distance from the stand with its neatly ordered music sheets.

He immediately noticed the lack of his violin and wondered if it had been placed in some cardboard box getting dusty or if John had decided to donate it to charity, but immediately discarded that idea given the presence of the musical sheets.

What had impressed him the most was the wall above the sofa.

Alongside the yellow smile that he himself had painted so many years before ("_In another life.._."), there were three hundred and sixty-two photos that almost covered the entire wall.

Sherlock had moved closer and looked at them.

John was the main subject of almost every photo, sometimes Molly, sometimes with the man who seemed to follow him everywhere, other times with Greg.

There were some photos with Mrs. Hudson, clearly taken during previous Christmases seeing the hideous sweaters John persisted on wearing during that occasion, and very few photos with Harriet.

Then there were many photos of John with a little girl, almost ten years old, Sherlock estimated, and these were the funniest photos and the only ones in which John's smile was sincere.

Sherlock smiled looking at a picture in which John was dressed from head to toe in grey, with a funnel on his head for a hat and his face covered in grey makeup, while the little girl wore a brown wig, a white shirt with puffed sleeves and a white and light blue checkered apron.

Next to them, wearing a lion's dress complete with tail and mane, was Jack Micheals.

John's smile in that picture was beautiful... Just as he remembered it.

Sherlock observed that photograph for a long time, trying to grasp every little change, every little nuance in John, and, while he felt relieved to find something of his old friend, a sign that John's life had gone on even during his absence, on the other hand he found himself jealous of all those experiences that they had not been able to share together in the last three years.

Jealous of that smile that had not been caused by his deductions or his mere presence, but by two perfect strangers who had nothing to do with him and John.

When he finally walked away from the wall covered with photographs, he sat in his armchair, crossed his legs, and placed his fingers just below his chin, in the usual position that helped him reflect, and got lost in his Mind Palace.

In a few hours John would be home and finally he could explain to the man the reasons that had prompted him to stage his death.

After all, Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade had listened to him, and they were as involved as John, so he was certain that finally John would listen to him.

The marks on his face showed that the initial anger had passed, now they could deal with that topic as in the past they had discussed crime scenes and all the problems that living together entailed.

Lost in his mind, he completely lost notion of time, without feeling even once the need to drink or eat, without giving a thought to his room where all his belongings had been lovingly guarded in those years.

He only come to himself when he heard the noise of the front door closing downstairs.

John.

He heard him exchange a few words with Mrs. Hudson, and while he waited Sherlock settled down more comfortably for the battle that awaited him in few minutes.

Sherlock was ready, sure of his arguments...

He would let John start the conversation; he would wait for him to confront him.

When the door to the apartment opened and John entered the flat, Sherlock realized that once again nothing would go as he had planned.

He read it in the strained muscles of his back, in the sluggishness of his movements and above all he understood it by the stubborn way in which John refused to meet his gaze, or even just to acknowledge his presence.

He watched him go to the kitchen and make tea, followed him with his eyes as he took out his favorite mug, then leaving the teacup on the coffee table.

He stared at him next to the stereo, and the next moment the notes of a song he didn't know spread into the room.

When he was ready, John sat in his armchair and, with his cup of tea not far away, lost himself in his paperback.

“****_Don't you know I'm still standing better than I ever did_  
Looking like a true survivor, feeling like a little kid  
I'm still standing after all this time  
Picking up the pieces of my life without you on my mind “

For nearly forty minutes, John sat next to him, ignoring him.

It was only when he saw his old friend standing up again that Sherlock understood: John would continue to ignore him, living his life as if he was still the only inhabitant of the apartment.

Like Sherlock never came back.

The idea terrified him, but Sherlock was aware that if he confronted John, if he pushed him into a confrontation, then there would be no chance of reconciliation.

When the man disappeared behind the bathroom door, Sherlock closed his eyes, defeated.

Moments later, his cell phone signaled the arrival of a text.

"_You should have expected a similar reaction, little brother. MH"_

_______________________________

Things did not improve in the following days.

Every morning, as he entered the kitchen to make his breakfast before going to work, John found Sherlock sitting in his chair or slouched on the couch.

The clothes had given way to grey pajama pants a t-shirt and silky blue dressing gown.

How many times had he imagined that same situation during those years of solitude?

How many mornings, especially during the first few weeks, had his mind offered him that long muscled body there on the couch?

John would have done anything to make those hallucinations come true, and now that his wish had been granted, the relief and happiness that was certain would accompany those moments had been replaced by blinding rage.

Sherlock was alive.

Wasn't that what he'd always wanted?

So why couldn't he be happy, put aside the past to rebuild that relationship that for years had been almost as important as the air he breathed?

Because it was hard to forgive and forget.

How could he forget all the times that the pain had taken away any will, every time his brain suggested he should end it, follow Sherlock wherever he was?

This had been the motivation that had driven him to behave as he did.

John was certain that if he allowed Sherlock to explain himself, anger would take over again, leading him to do something he would regret.

So, he had carried on with his life as if nothing had happened.

And if at times his mind worried marginally about Sherlock, wondering when it was the last time he had made a full meal, John would drive away those thoughts by saying that it was no longer his concern, that the man had managed to survive just fine in those three years without him and certainly could continue to take care of himself.

John had not considered the other aspects that Sherlock's reappearance in his life brought with him: the day after his return, the kitchen turns back into a laboratory and above all his return from the world of the dead had brought with him Mycroft's presence.

Two days after the detective's return, John had returned home after a shift at the clinic and found the older Holmes sitting in the living room, in his chair, in front of Sherlock who from the expression of his face did not appreciate this visit at all.

John had taken a deep breath and repeated himself that this was no longer his problem, that he no longer had to be a peacemaker between the two.

He had then taken off his jacket and entered the kitchen putting the kettle on.

-Dr. Watson. It's nice to see you again - Mycroft said welcoming him home.

John had looked up at the British official and had nodded his head.

-Mr. Holmes.

I'm sorry, but I can't turn the feeling- he said to him in a formal tone.

Mycroft had stared at him a few moments before nodding.

For years John had not met the man and listening to the tone of voice and the words used in that short sentence, one might have believed that the two were perfect strangers.

"I can understand it" the man replied, returning to lay his gaze on his brother, sitting back in the chair.

John brought his attention back to his tea when his cell phone started vibrating in his jeans' right pocket.

He gave a quick glance at the screen and made his way into the kitchen looking for some privacy.

-Hey Greg! -had said after starting the communication.

-Hi John, you all right? - the Detective asked him, trying to keep a casual tone.

The feeling of being observed that had accompanied him in those last days, in that moment was amplified: the complete attention of the two Holmes brothers was focused on him and that conversation.

"I had better days.

It’s been a while since the last visit from the British government" he answered going for levity.

-Is Mycroft there? I can only imagine your happiness...-said the other man.

The sound of the kettle distracted him, leading him to approach the stove and pour the boiling water into the cup.

"Listen, I wanted to know if we were still on for tonight... - Greg asked him, making him frown.

-Why shouldn't we? - John asked him about it.

-I thought plans had changed, given the Sherlock’s return- Greg explained.

-Of course not! I'm certainly not going to change my life because he decided to return from the land of the dead- John said.

He was aware that those words were strong, that they would probably hurt the black-haired man, but that didn't make them any less true: he had fought hard to find a balance and stability in his life after Sherlock’s death and he had no intention of seeing everything collapse just because of Sherlock.

-Okay...- Greg said clearly surprised by those words- Chinese? -

-Perfect. I’ll call Jack. Eight o’clock? - John asked.

"I think I can make it" the other one answered.

-Don't forget to tell Sally-John added.

Greg reassured him and shortly afterwards the two friends said goodbye.

He knew Sherlock could ruin the evening with a few words, but John needed his friends.

Now more than ever.

__________________________________

Sherlock's eyes followed John's limping figure until it disappeared on the stairs leading to his room.

For days his only hobby had been to follow every little move of the dear doctor, as if he wanted to reassure himself that John was still there, despite the harsh words and his fists.

Despite the hatred John professed towards him, he had not made the slightest hint of leaving.

For Sherlock, that was a positive sign: it would take some time, but in the end, John would forgive him.

John always forgave him; he would do it this time too.

But that belief had faltered when he heard John speak on the phone with Greg.

What was going to happen tonight?

Mycroft had told him that Mondays were John’s crazy nights; what more was he to expect from the doctor?

John had never been the type to have many social events, his ideal perfect night was eating take-away in front of the television with a cup of tea ready on the coffee table.

"**_I'm certainly not going to change my life because he decided to return from the land of the _dead.**"

Those words had hurt him more than he even wanted to admit to himself.

John was clinging on to his anger with his teeth and his nails, categorically refusing to listen to reason: how far could they go on that way?

-Sherlock…-

That simple word brought him back to reality, ripping him away from his Mind Palace and his theories.

He quickly glanced towards Mycroft, sitting severely in John's armchair.

-Why are you still here? -asked Sherlock, surprised and slightly bored.

"You didn't answer my question" said the other without bothering to answer.

Sherlock look at his brother closely, looking for information that might help him, and after a few moments, he shook his head.

-No-said Sherlock firmly.

-Sharing the apartment with Dr. Watson is not the wisest decision at the moment- rebuked Mycroft to corroborate his words.

-Even going to another apartment, by chance in front of yours, will make things better.

I paid the rent of this flat for as long as I was gone, all my belongings and my forensic equipment is here and let's not forget the proximity to the Barts.

So, dear brother, I'm not going anywhere; this is the first and last time I want to hear about such an idiocy!

If you don't mind getting out of the way now, I'm sure you'll find a cake or a nuclear crisis waiting for you - Sherlock dismissed him with a pulled smile.

With a frustrated sigh, Mycroft stood up and stared at him for a few more moments, before heading to the door.

-Don't forget about Mummy, Sherlock... I think she waited long enough- Mycroft reminded him without turning around.

"_She’s not the only one__!"_

Right now, he had other priorities...

Starting with a dinner party: he had to show up at his best if he wanted to fight the enemy.

_______________________________________

The first guest to arrive was Jack.

-Jack, darling! – greeted him Mrs. Hudson letting him in to the hall.

-Hello, Mrs. Hudson, how are you? -asked the man with a polite tone.

The woman smiled and shrugged her shoulders.

-I’m good dear, despite my hip... With this weather it always seems to get worse; If it continues like this, I'll be forced to use a walking stick-

The man shook his head.

-I could never let that happen! I volunteer to drive you wherever you need to go" Jack said with a good-natured smile.

The woman smiled in turn, before moving her gaze towards the staircase leading to apartment B.

-Is John home? - Jack asked, following her gaze.

Once again, the woman nodded.

\- Sherlock is home too-added Mrs. Hudson lowering slightly her voice.

Jack nodded his head, preparing to meet the ghost who had always hovered around the flat and in his relationship with John.

"Be gentle to him, dear" the woman said, surprising him, "Do it for John."

The man frowned and made to reply, but at that moment the noise of the creaking steps announced John's arrival and soon after the man's blonde head peeped into the stairwell.

"I thought I heard the doorbell" he said, welcoming Jack with a smile.

Jack smiled back and waved to him.

"I'm trying to get Mrs. Hudson to run away with me to Gretna Green and get married" he told him, making the old woman laugh.

-Mrs. Hudson don’t it, he’s not a big catch! - John joked.

The woman shook her head and, after say farewell to the two men, retreated into her apartment, while Jack started going up the stairs, coming up to John.

-How would you say I'm not a catch? I have everything a woman could want! -he retorted slowly following his friend up the stairs.

-Is that so? - John commented, a smile in his voice.

-Of course! I own a nice house in Marble Arch... -started Jack.

-You are renting it! - retorted the doctor.

-Look whose talking! I have a good job that allows me to know important personalities...-

-If they don't blow up before-added the other.

They had arrived in front of the apartment door and this allowed Jack to look his friend in the face, pretending to be surprised.

-John Watson, you're in good mood tonight!

Is it my presence that makes you so happy? -asked him trying in vain to hide a smile.

John burst out laughing and looked down for an instant; when their eyes met again a serious expression had appeared in the blue eyes of the doctor, and the jaw muscles had contracted leading him to assume his typically military pose.

Jack stared at him a few seconds before leaning closer to his friend's face and lightly touching his lips with his own, in a gesture of friendship that they had exchanged many times in the past and that seemed to calm John every time.

When their eyes met again, John nodded and hinted a small smile imitated immediately by Jack: it was an evening different from the others, they both knew it, but both men would do their best to try to have fun as they did every time.

Jack was aware that they had to protect their friend from that cumbersome ghost that had materialized again in their lives.... No matter what.

He was afraid of the infamous Sherlock Holmes.

With a quick move of his wrist, John opened the door of the flat and went inside.

-Make yourself at home. But there's no point in me telling you, isn't it? -John told him before going straight into the kitchen.

Jack immediately noticed the presence sitting in the chair, the same armchair that for all the years of his friendship with John, had always remained empty and inaccessible.

Without taking off his jacket, he took a few steps in the living room and observed the famous Sherlock Holmes.

It was different from the photos he had seen on internet, more muscular and thin, but the hair remained the same and Jack was sure, that even his face had not changed, despite right now it was covered in yellow bruises for the fight he had with John.

"Mr. Holmes... - he said cautiously, reaching out to him.

\- It is a pleasure to know you-added in a courteous tone.

Sherlock reciprocated his gaze for a few seconds and gave only a quick glance at the outstretched hand the man had offered him.

"I wish I could say the same, but I don't usually make hasty judgments" the black-haired man said in a low, deep voice.

Jack hinted a smile and nodded, withdrawing his hand.

He turned his back and took off his jacket, casting a quick glance at John who had followed that exchange in silence, and winked at him to reassure him.

"There's beer in the fridge" John said, breaking the silence.

\- What's your limit tonight? -

-Three beers.

Tomorrow I will have a work commitment and showing up with a hangover is certainly unprofessional - Jack replied by hanging his jacket on the pegs next to the door.

John pulled a beer out of the fridge and left it on the table.

-Would you like something to drink Mr. Holmes? - Jack asked when he entered the kitchen and took a bottle opener from a drawer.

Sherlock merely shook his head, his gaze fixed on the man.

-I'm a big fan of your blog, you know? "Jack continued, then brought the bottle to his lips.

"It's not my blog, it's John's" the detective said.

Jack merely nodded, then looked at his friend.

-Any word from Greg and Sally? - he then asked.

John shrugged.

-Greg promised they'd be here by eight o'clock. They will bring dinner.

-Goodbye dinner! -Jack commented slightly theatrical.

John chuckled.

-You're horrible! - John scolded him.

-How many times did Greg show up on time? Every time we are forced to reheat the food because of the dear Inspector- replied Jack.

-That's why they invented the microwave- retorted John.

Jack's presence was a cure-all for John, helping him not to focus too much on the quiet, rigid figure who had taken over the living room three days earlier and continued to irritate him.

That simple bickering, like other conversations they had in the past, was instead a symbol of normality, proof that his life should not be sucked back into a black hole because of the return of Sherlock Holmes.

-Do you think I can finally ask him a few questions? - Jack asked, ripping him out of his thoughts.

John frowned for a few moments, confused, then hurried to shake his head.

-No! Absolutely not! -

-Oh, come on John! Aren't you curious? - Jack asked the other man.

-No! In fact, I don't understand why you are! We've known for a long time that Greg and Mycroft were a couple- he pointed out, taking a beer for himself from the fridge.

-It's different! We couldn’t talk about it, it was all wrapped in silence, but now I can make fun of it as much as I want.

A little revenge for all the times Greg told us that he was not interested in anyone, or that he needed time to recover from the divorce, when instead he was going at it like a hedgehog- explained the other, a wry smile to stretch his lips.

John stared at him a few moments before laughing amused, his gaze low on the tip of his shoes.

-Okay, all right. But try not to exaggerate-concede.

Jack dropped an arm around John's shoulders and pulled him closed, leading the man to lay a hand on his chest covered in his denim shirt to regain his balance.

-That’s my boy! - he said, provoking a new laugh in John, before he is pushing him away from himself.

Just then the doorbell rang, and John walked up the stairs to rescue Sally and Greg from Mrs. Hudson, leaving the two men alone in the apartment.

-Usually muscle irritations are an impediment during sexual intercourse-said Sherlock, interrupting the silence.

Jack frowned and stared at the detective confused, leading the other to raise his eyes to the sky and add more information.

-You suffered a shock during your last workout at the gym, no later than last night, probably kick boxing, and now you have problems in your left leg, although you are trying in every way not to let it show, favoring the right leg.

Your instructor tried to intervene by spraying dry ice on your leg, then bandaged it, as evidenced by the slight swelling at the height of your left thigh.

But homosexual sexual intercourse requires a lot of strength, especially legs and lower body, so I think it's unlikely that you will be able to make such efforts in the next twenty-four or thirty-six hours-concluded Sherlock clearly satisfied by his deductions.

Jack took a few moments to recover from the surprise that the detective's deductions had had on him, and then shrugged his shoulders in a gesture he hoped would be careless.

It was clear what the true meaning of those words was, and Jack had no intention of being intimidated.

“Well, in this case I’ll let John do most of the work for both of us" Jack said before bringing the bottle back to his lips.

The sound of footsteps on the stairs leading up to the apartment led Jack to approach the door to greet his two friends.

-Inspector Lestrade! What an honor to have you here... We were so worried about your delay that we were going to call Scotland Yard and arrange a search party-teased him.

-Go to hell Jack! We’re only ten minutes late- Greg retorts as he heads to the kitchen to lay the takeaway boxes.

Jack greeted Sally with a kiss on both cheeks and moved aside to let her in, and as soon as she had put her foot in the living room, the woman froze at the sight of Sherlock.

-Sergeant... - greeted the man.

Although they had met for a few moments earlier in Scotland Yard's offices, this was the first time they had come face to face in three years.

Sally stepped forward and stopped a few feet away from Sherlock.

"I owe you an apology Holmes" she said, addressing the man by his first name.

Sherlock watched her closely, reading in the nervous contraction of the jaw the woman's anxiety, in her slightly skinnier face the years of exoneration followed by his faux suicide and in her brown eyes the sincerity of those words.

Without saying anything he nodded, accepting the apology.

Sally nodded in turn and the next moment she turned her back on him to take off her jacket.

The tense atmosphere that had descended for a few moments in the apartment seemed to dissolve instantly, allowing Greg and John to resume breathing normally.

While Sally was busy with her own jacket, and Greg and John were busy placing the various containers on the table, Jack approached the refrigerator and took two beers for the newcomers.

-Are you on duty Sal? - he then asked Sally looking for her around the room.

The woman shook her head, moving her brown curls and entering shortly after in the kitchen.

"Not until tomorrow" she said, approaching the cabinet above the sink and taking some dishes and placing them next to John.

Quickly counting the plates, John gave a quick glance at Sherlock who seemed immersed in his world, staring at the wallpaper in front of him and the fingers of both hands joined under his chin and, mechanically approached the cabinet to take another plate.

He quickly filled it with food he knew would meet the detective's favor, continuing to call himself an idiot the whole time, then left it on the table to pick up the chopsticks from one of the drawers.

"If there's not an emergency" Greg said, taking the beer Jack had left on the table for him, carefully following John's movements and casting a glance at Sherlock, taking a sip from his own bottle.

When the plate was ready, Greg picked it up and headed into the living room, leaving the plate and chopsticks on the coffee table, close enough for the detective to reach them only by extending his hand and then returning to the kitchen.

The other three guests were already sitting around the table on bar stools, food neatly placed in the center of the table so that it was easily accessible for everyone, and Greg occupied his seat next to Sally.

-Any news on the case of the dead man from Vauxhall Bridge? - John asked before he had a spring roll.

Greg nodded.

-You were right.

Molly confirmed that he died of a heart attack and that the head wound was inflicted when he was already dead.

We are investigating some clubs, but as you can imagine it’s not easy-added Greg before sinking the fork into your own Cantonese rice.

John chuckled.

-Difficulty in finding a place where wealthy people practiced S&M? - he teased him.

-If you want Greg, I can be your bait- joined the conversation Jack.

-Since when are interested in S&M? -asked Sally amused.

-I'm not, but it's one of those experiences to try at least once in a lifetime, like running the London Marathon...-he answered between mouthfuls.

-Or visit the Chinese Wall- added John, clearly amused.

-That's right, John! Are you telling me that you are not even a little bit curious about it, Sally? - asked Jack again.

The woman took a sip from her beer and reflected for a few moments, the three men's attention on her, before shrugging her shoulders.

-If I'm in charge, I may consider it…- she finally answered

-I can imagine you as a dominatrix- John teased her.

-Now I need to bleach my brain to get rid of this picture...-said Greg shaking his head.

-However, to answer your question yes, it's hard to find a place where behind the outward normality you practice extreme sex.

Especially if, as you said, it was a club specifically for wealthy members-

-You should look in posh areas of London: Mayfair, Belgravia, even Knightsbridge.

And if I were you, I wouldn't be looking for a hidden place, in fact I'm convinced it's in plain sight-said John.

Greg looked at him surprised and John make to answer him, but he was preceded by Jack.

-The possibility of getting caught red handed is part of the thrill.

A perfect facade of respectability and luxury to hide your most forbidden desires... Just like your fiancé-added the man almost as an afterthought.

Greg coughed trying not to choke when a mouthful of almond chicken went down the wrong pipe because of the comment.

-Ah, can we finally talk about this? -asked Sally intrigued.

-Did you know that, too? - John asked, surprised.

-Hey, don't forget I'm a detective! Also, it's a little hard not to ask questions when you see Holmes Senior in the office every two weeks- answered the woman.

Unknowingly John looked up at the living room, worried that that conversation might annoy Sherlock, but the man still seemed lost in his Mind Palace, but a slight smile rose on his face when he noticed that the plate on the coffee table was empty.

Once again, he called himself an idiot for his inability to completely detach from the detective and refocused on the conversation.

-Come on Greg! You can't back out; we want all the details- Jack said.

The inspector sighed and glanced at John who shrugged his shoulders.

"Try not to be too detailed" the good doctor said.

-Are you kidding me? I've been looking forward to hearing those details for almost two years! - Jack said, looking at his friend.

-Sometimes you're really morbid. The last thing I'd like before I go to sleep is to rethink the sexual preferences of the British government- John retorted, making both Sally and Jack laugh.

-Okay, okay.

How long have you known? - Greg asked his friends, but his look didn’t stray from John.

The man shrugged his shoulders, then carefully reflected on the events of the last few years but went back with his mind to one episode.

-Do you remember when you came to Dartmoor to help us with the Baskerville case? - he asked Greg.

The man nodded.

-Sherlock said Mycroft just needed to snap his fingers for you to do whatever he asked you- remembered John, uttering the detective's name for the first time in forty-eight hours.

Again, Greg nodded his head.

-At the time I didn't give much weight to it, but in the last few years I started to notice some unexpected things.

The super-technological and certainly traceable even offshore mobile phone, the clearly expensive shirts, almost as expensive as Mycroft's, and as if that weren't enough there was your reticence anytime someone approach you every time we went out together.

Then when you moved, it became obvious.

After all, I had more spare time...-comment John ironically.

Greg took a sip from his bottle and straightened his back.

-It started right after Baskerville.

Until then we were only friends, but there was always a strange tension between us, which I had never given much importance to because of my marriage to Katie; but after the divorce, it seemed useless to keep pretending.

Of course, things weren't easy after...-he said without finishing the sentence, aware that John would understand perfectly what he was alluding to.

John fought against the need to look for Sherlock with his eyes, to reassure himself that the man was indeed there in the living room, and not a figment of his imagination, nodding in turn.

"It took a while to overcome his inhibitions, the fear of displays of affection in public, and my fear of not being enough, but in the end, we reached a balance- Greg admitted.

-Oh Greg, you're so sweet. But now tell us a little bit of racy details-commented Jack.

-Oh, no! - John said, standing up to get another couple of beers.

-John, you're no fun! – Jack accused him.

-If I asked you the details of your relationship with John, you'd do the same thing- Greg said.

-What do you want to know? - Jack asked the other leaning toward the table.

-Oh, this evening is proving to be more interesting than expected! I always had a curiosity about our dear doctor...- intervened Sally.

"Ask away darling," Jack encouraged her.

-Donovan! -la riprese Greg.

John looked at her surprised and in response the woman shrugged, bringing her attention back to Jack.

-I've always wondered what is hidden under all those layers of wool and cotton. After all, there must be a reason why they call him "Three Continents John Watson”-she replied.

The direct interested blushed slightly at that nickname, gave to him during the war, but both Greg and Jack laughed.

"That’s right! You have to have hidden skills John, if you can get home every Monday with a different guy" Greg said teasingly.

-Oh, get stuff! - the doctor said without acrimony.

-Let's see... I can tell you that wool and cotton don’t do justice to our dear doctor.

And that our sweet John has many aces up his sleeve which certainly contributed to the making of that nickname.

You would never say looking at his charming face what he could do with…-answered Jack.

-Ok that’s enough! - John stopped him slightly flushed.

Sally laid her gaze on the man sitting in front of her and after a few moments exhaled.

-Too bad I didn't take advantage of it during when you were straight! -she complained.

John laughed.

-You were almost obsessed with Anderson that you wouldn't even notice if I'd hit you- he said.

"Yeah, right" said Greg, a mischievous smile on his lips.

-Oh, shut up Greg! - John scolded him pointedly, understanding his friend's veiled insinuation.

The last thing he wanted was to out his feelings for Sherlock right in front of the detective.

-Talking about important matters...- Jack intruded before the situation became awkward - Emma will be in town this weekend, and as usual she asked to see you- he said turning slightly to John, happy when he saw a smile on his slender lips.

"It would have annoyed me if she didn’t" admitted the man.

"She will arrive on Friday evening" Jack said.

-What are your plans? - Sally asked, dropping the fork on the empty plate.

-I got two tickets to see Les Miserables.

She's been talking about this musical since she saw the movie, so I thought I'd take her to see it.

She also asked if she could have a sleepover with you on Saturday- Jack said, looking at John again.

The smile on the man's face became even brighter, and happy to see him truly serene for the first time that night, Jack reached out and took his friend’s hand.

-So, I was thinking that if it's not a problem for you, we can spend Saturday together and maybe she can stay with you-

Why would that be a problem? It's not the first time she' slept here- commented John.

Suddenly Jack's words took on a new meaning: things were different from the last time Emma had come to see him.

Oh, right…

Sherlock was back.

-Oh... It won't be a problem- said John firmly.

Jack stared at him for a few moments before nodding, hinting a smile.

"Then starts to think about something interesting to do together on Saturday" Jack said, smiling.

The group of friends stayed together for another couple of hours, continuing affably to tease each other and simply enjoying the company, without murders or the sadness that had accompanied them in recent years to spoil their mood.

It was almost midnight when Greg and Sally took leave of the two men, giving only a quick glance at the figure who had stood still in the living room for the length of the dinner, sitting in his own armchair.

When the apartment door was locked behind him, John glanced at Jack and brushed his hand over his face, trying to ward off tiredness.

-Are you going to stay? - he asked him, even though he already knew the answer.

-Do you have a spare toothbrush? - Jack asked.

John shrugged.

"I've already offered you a bed, now don't overdo your requests" he joked.

Jack smiled wryly, before turning around and heading to the bathroom.

Once the door was locked behind the man, John made his way to the kitchen to check that everything was in order and for a few moments toyed with the idea of a last cup of tea before bed, when the voice behind him made him jump.

-**I’m still standing**.

I'm still standing.

For the first time since his return, Sherlock had broken his silence and was speaking to him.

John stood still, trying to overcome the impulse to meet the detective's gaze and the even stronger one to leave the room, acting as a coward.

\- **"I'm still standing after all this time, picking up the pieces of my life without you on my mind."**

Did you want to tell me that you didn't need me anymore, or that there's no place in your life for me anymore?

I could lie and say that song started suddenly, as soon as you turned on the stereo, but we both know you choose it.

So it has a deep meaning for you, maybe it helped you during these months of solitude, it overcame your insecurities, maybe it became the first song you listened to in the morning even before you got out of bed."

John clenched his fists and closed his eyes for a moment, cursing the detective for his intelligence and his brilliant and perfect deductions.

As usual there was a mistake... There was always a mistake.

-Years.

Not months-John corrected him in a choked voice, continuing to turn his back to Sherlock.

Sherlock remained silent, forcing John to open his eyes and turn around, casting a circular glance at the living room: Sherlock was standing, in the middle of the living room, clearly unsure whether to move towards him or not.

-Three years Sherlock-repeated.

An exasperated sigh ran from his unhinged lips and once again passed a hand over his face, this time trying to convince himself that the whole situation was just a hallucination, that soon the detective would disappear as so many times had happened in the past.

"I came back John" said the man, interpreting his thoughts for the umpteenth time by the language of his body.

-Stop it! -snapped John annoyed.

-I'm not one of your damn witnesses! Don’t you dare deduce me! -

Silence fell between them for a few moments until John spoke again.

-Why did you come back? I thought I told you I didn't want anything to do with you anymore- he asked tired.

-This is my house, too.

Mycroft paid the rent all these years, and you kept all my stuff.

Did you really think you could afford the apartment only on the clinic's salary? - Sherlock asked him in a cold tone.

John's jaw hardened to those words, and for a moment Sherlock believed that a new shower of punches would hit him.

"Fine then, all I have to do is look for another place" he said.

-I don't want you to leave! -replied Sherlock, a slight panic in his voice.

-Well, I didn't want to spend the last three years of my life mourning someone who wasn't dead.

I don't know if anybody told you that, Sherlock, but adult life sucks! - John added.

-I had to! It was the only way, why you don't understand? he asked, exasperated.

At those words, John looked at him for a moment in silence, an expression incredulous on his face, which was almost immediately replaced by anger.

-The only way?

Jumping off a roof was the only way?

Lying to me, to Mrs. Hudson to Greg was the only way? -asked John clearly angry.

"I don't understand why you're taking it so hard" Sherlock said.

\- BECAUSE YOU MADE ME WATCH YOU BLOODY IDIOT! - he screamed in anger.

Sherlock stared at him in silence, aware that the man had not yet finished.

-You were on that damn ledge, ready to jump...

You've even managed to cry, you're a such a great actor, Sherlock!

I spent the last three years of my life with the regret that I didn't do enough to convince you to come down, to join me outside, for not understanding what was going on, for calling you a machine the last time we spoke.

Do you have any idea how it feels? - he asked him with clenched teeth.

-I did what I had to do to protect you.

-I'M A SOLDIER SHERLOCK! I fought against the enemies of the Country, I killed for you, I was taken hostage and they stuffed me with plastic, I let you drug me for your experiments and lie to me shamelessly because of The Woman.

Have I ever backed down in the face of danger? - John asked him.

Sherlock was forced to shake his head.

-No.

I've always stood by your side, even though the situation became more and more dangerous.

I didn't want your protection.

I wanted your trust.

But when it came to prove to me that I was important to you, you betrayed me.

And your presence here is a blatant confirmation of that betrayal- he ended; his voice completely emptied of the anger that had animated him up to that point.

The two men stared for a long time in silence, unable to find the right words to overcome what was perhaps the most difficult situation ever occurred in their friendship since the Baskerville case.

-John-.

A sudden voice made them both jump, leading John to turn his gaze toward the bathroom door, where standing by the bathroom door Jack watched the scene before his eyes.

Without saying anything, John nodded and walked to the stairs that connected the living room and his room, but before facing the first step he stopped again.

"I can't stop you from living here if that's what you want" he said.

A slight hope made room in Sherlock to those words: despite the qualms and limitations, John was willing to stay, he would abandon the absurd idea of looking for another apartment.

But those feelings were short-lived when John spoke again.

-But things will be different, there will be rules, and don't even think for a second that being roommates will change things between us again.

The way I see it, I'm still the only resident of this apartment.

You're not even here- concluded John.

He then walked up the stairs to his room, followed a step away from Jack, leaving Sherlock with the weight of that condemnation.

And for the first time in so many years, Sherlock felt alone again, as so many times before he met John.

For a moment he tried to convince himself that loneliness would protect him, as had happened so often in the past, but a voice made its way through his mind.

"_Friends_ _protect you."_

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	4. A night at the museum

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "-Did you ever tell her about me? -he decided to ask.
> 
> Again, John shook his head.
> 
> "Your name hasn't been done very often in recent years" he said simply.
> 
> -Why John?
> 
> Why did you kept all my stuff, all my clothes, but you refused to say my name all these years? - "

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone!  
I just wanted to say THANK YOU! to all the people who read my FF, left kudos, bookmarked it and wrote a comment.  
You are Golden!  
Once again, I apologize for any mistakes but, as I said before, English is not my mother tongue.
> 
> Enjoy the new chapter and let me know what you think! ^_^

Time had always been a variable for Sherlock Holmes.

When his mind was busy with one of his fantastic puzzles or focused an experiment, hours passed by a triple speed, confusing day and night, making him forget all his futile primary needs, first of all sleep and eat.

Then there were those moments of apathy, of complete boredom in which Sherlock swore that he could hear his own brain cells rotting and dying from the lack of stimulation; in a distant past he had fought the silence of his mind with his beloved cigarettes and cocaine, his favorite drug.

Then suddenly John Watson appeared in his life.

All that seemed fundamental, useful to keep his brain alive had become irrelevant: despite the annoying and at the same time reassuring nature of the good doctor, Sherlock had found a living puzzle, always at his disposal, that in the eighteen months he had shared with the doctor had always proved unsolvable.

Making it in the eyes of the detective even more interesting and inspiring.

For eighteen months he had tried to decipher the mystery that was John Hamish Watson, looking in every gesture or word a clue that would help him decipher the man, deeply convinced that once the mystery was solved, all the charm surrounding his roommate would vanish, making him turn out to be predictable and boring like the rest of the population.

Then there was The Fall.

And he had been forced to leave.

When he finally came back to the doctor, certain that he could resume his life from the exact moment he left it, he had to face an unexpected problem.

John Watson, the dear affable, handy doctor, in those three years of distance had turned into a completely different puzzle.

Totally inaccessible to him.

Whereas in the past he had been able to capture every smallest and most insignificant clue only from a quick glance, he now seemed to have lost that ability.

For the second time in thirty-eight years, Sherlock had found himself in front of a blank sheet, unable to draw his own conclusions.

Only once had he had a similar experience, with an opponent he considered his equal and who over time had proved fundamental to his fight.

It was unthinkable that the dear and unassuming John Watson had become impossible to decipher.

Wrong.

All he could read about the man was just what John would disclosure to him: he knew about his nightclub nights, the conquests that led him to stay out on Monday night, the symbiotic relationship that now seemed to bind him to that damned Jack Micheals, but only because John had let him know.

He didn't need an explanation when he didn't see him come home on Monday night.

But that didn't stop his hyperactive brain from asking a thousand loathsome questions: who was he with?

Did he settle for Micheals or did he choose a new prey?

But above all the most annoying question of all: what have these strangers more than him?

There were so many questions that still couldn't be answered: what did take John away from home every Tuesday night?

Sherlock had spent a few hours toying with the idea of lurking around the clinic, waiting for John's shift to end, and then following him on his unknown expeditions.

However, he dismissed the idea when he realized that the risk was too high.

Risk-loving Sherlock Holmes, had decided to back down because he knew John would never forgive him if he found out, perhaps putting in place the threat of looking for a new apartment where he would become even more inaccessible for the detective.

Who was Emma?

Why had John's face lit up when he heard her name?

Was the relationship that had tied him for years to the detective completely lost?

Since that dinner with Micheals, Lestrade and Donovan had been six days old and, in the meantime, Sherlock had wondered about the new relationships John had forged in his absence.

How do you explain the friendship that was born between John and Donovan?

Before The Fall, John was unable to hear the woman's name without an annoyed expression crossed his face, but now they seemed capable of affectionate interactions and unexpected confidences.

If he had not known about John's sexual inclinations, he would have thought that something had happened between them, thus fostering a friendship, as in the past with Sarah Saywer.

An annoying question kept running in his mind when analyzing the new friendship between John and Donovan: how was it possible that the doctor had managed to forgive Donovan and seemed incapable of forgiving him, which he had repeatedly claimed to be his "best friend"?

Wrong again.

He had been replaced.

A man like John, so attached to all those social platitudes that Sherlock had never paid attention to, had shown his allegiance to Sherlock in life and even death, until the detective returned from the "world of the dead."

"_I didn't want your protection, but your trust._

_But when it came to prove to me that I was important to you, you betrayed me._

_And your presence here is the glaring confirmation of that betrayal_."

Those words had been ringing in his mind for days: he had analyzed them, dissected them, trying to understand their hidden meaning.

Why did John refuse to understand that he had no choice?

That leaving him behind was the hardest choice of his life, even harder than giving up cocaine?

How could John be so blind when it was evident that nothing and no one was more important...

No!

He could not allow that thought to take hold in his mind.

It was completely uncharted territory and the conclusions that he would draw from it would be misled by Lestrade and Mycroft’s insinuations.

John was his friend. His only friend.

Nothing more.

Once again, he was forced to shake his head: John had been his friend...

Now he wasn't.

Ten days had passed since his return to Baker Street and in all that time John had kept himself at a distance, totally uninterested in his life and basic needs: never once had he worried if the detective had eaten or slept, never once a cup of tea had appeared on the coffee table of the living room next to the sofa, perfect as only John was able to make it.

If it would have been up to John’s or himself, he would have died of starvation.

Fortunately, Mrs. Hudson seemed intent on getting him to recover the pounds he lost by forcing him to eat at least once a day, despite protests over how digestion slowed his mental processes.

He had spent most of those days at home, leaving the flat only when Molly informed him of a perfect corpse for one of his "crazy" experiments, allowing him to escape from the weird atmosphere that seemed to have taken hold of Baker Street.

But something was about to change.

It was Friday and the next day Emma would be their guest.

Perhaps for that very reason, on Friday night John Watson, returning from work, after a shower and with the classic cup of tea artfully placed on the armrest of his own chair, met his gaze for the first time in six days.

_______________________________________

-Tomorrow I’ll have a guest overnight-

John had asked himself several times that week how to deal with the discourse, toying for a moment with the idea of putting the genius before the fact without much explanation, but his conscience had prevented him.

Everything could be said about John Watson, except that he was not a correct person and, despite their history and all the problems they had at the time, Sherlock was his roommate and had to be made aware of any changes who might cause an alteration in his lifestyle.

And another person in Baker Street was definitely a change.

The ten days that had just passed had been the strangest of his life: Sherlock had returned, but the atmosphere inside the 221B was the same as the previous three years.

John had done everything he could to get on with his life, the new life he had reinvented for himself to avoid succumbing to pain, and only Sherlock's constant presence on the living room couch reminded him that something had really changed.

He had spent most of those ten days away from home, staying at work late and not coming home both Monday night and Tuesday, letting himself be enveloped by his routine, but it would have been impossible for him not to notice the similarities between Sherlock and the man he had slept with Monday night.

Although he had tried to get angry with the detective for the constant presence in his life and mind, he knew perfectly well that he could not blame anyone other than himself.

Those desires, or rather repressed feelings, which he had hidden from everyone and himself, with the return of Sherlock, had returned stronger than ever, but now the nostalgia and remorse for the unspoken words and the gestures never made turned in anger.

He had lost three years of his life mourning a man who had instead traveled around the world, solving the biggest puzzle of his life, without worrying in the least about what or whom he left behind.

Sherlock was right: he really was an idiot.

Only an idiot would apply the rules of feelings to a man like Sherlock Holmes who, by his own definition, considered feelings "useless and superfluous".

Despite the obvious hatred that radiated from his presence towards the detective, his brain seemed unable not to care about the man.

From some small twitches on Sherlock face, John had noticed how much the man missed his violin , who was still jealously guarded in his bedroom, in a hidden corner of his closet; by the contraction of the muscles or by the fetal position that the man occasionally assumed on the sofa, it was clear that boredom was beginning to take a hold of him, given the lack of stimulation and cases; and from the constant gaze that seemed to follow him everywhere in the apartment, it was evident Sherlock had to reassure himself and John of his return and their joint presence at 221B Baker Street finally again in the same place after three years.

He was aware that Mrs. Hudson had taken on the task of feeding Sherlock, trying to get him to least put on some of the weight lost during his absence, and he was infinitely grateful for that.

As the weekend approached, John realized that he could no longer postpone their talk.

He had to talk to Sherlock about Emma's impending arrival.

A round of phone calls had confirmed her arrival for that weekend, followed by a series of wacky projects that had been changed several times within a few days.

That's why that Friday evening, he sat in his own armchair and met Sherlock's gaze for the first time in seven days.

"Tomorrow I’ll have a guest overnight" he said.

Sherlock remained silent, clearly awaiting further information.

John cleared his throat and searched for the right words to continue the speech.

-She's a very important person to me.

It's not the first time she's been a guest here, she knows Mrs. Hudson and she's very fond of her, and if I know her at least a little bit she's going to act like this is her second home- he continued.

-How old is she? -asked Sherlock, his voice blushed by the prolonged silence.

-Ten.

As I said, it's not the first time she's been a guest here-John repeated.

-But this is the first time she'll found someone else besides you-ended Sherlock for him.

John nodded.

-Does she know who I am? - the detective asked him.

This time John shook his head.

-How did you explain to her that, even though you had two bedrooms, you slept on the couch every time she was a guest here? -he asked John again, gathering information with a quick glance.

The doctor remained silent for a few moments, then smiled slowly.

-From the first time she was here, I told her that she was not allowed to enter your room and she, being respectful of the rules despite the natural curiosity of a child, listened to me- he merely explained.

Sherlock crossed his long legs and stared at him for a few seconds.

-Did you ever tell her about me? -he decided to ask.

Again, John shook his head.

"Your name hasn't been done very often in recent years" he said simply.

-Why John?

Why did you kept all my stuff, all my clothes, but you refused to say my name all these years? - Sherlock asked him, trying to get a sincere answer.

That question had haunted him for days.

Why had John sought comfort in things, albeit moderately, but avoided erasing their friendship by reinventing himself?

He understood from the muscle contraction in the man's jaw that even this time the question would not be answered.

John took a deep breath, clearly trying to control the indignant response that seemed ready to come out his closed lips and met his eyes again.

-I just wanted to inform you that tomorrow we would have a guest and make sure that this was not a problem for you-

Sherlock observed him a few seconds before nodding briefly.

-No problem-

John nodded in turn and moved to pick up the book on the coffee table between them.

"Thank you" he said, with that typically English manners that sometimes infuriated Sherlock.

John then opened his book and hid in his own mind, eschewing any further contact with the detective.

Sherlock, after a short deliberation, decided that this unexpected visit might be positive: it would allow him to know a side of John who was completely unknown to him and, if he played his cards well, he would diminished the distance that John had put between them.

____________________________

It was the sound of voices coming from the drawing-room that woke Sherlock up.

The man had always had light sleep and, as a consequence of the last three years, was able to wake up even because of the slightest change around him.

He stood motionless, lying on his back on his bed for a few moments and listened to the conversation coming to him through the closed door.

Sherlock identified three voices: a man, clearly John, and two women, one adult and the other, saw the ringing and excited timbre, a little girl.

The latter was supposed to be Emma, their weekend guest.

-Are you sure it's not a problem for you? - he heard the woman ask.

From the tone of voice Sherlock guessed that the stranger had to be young, no more than thirty-five years old, clearly with an important role, accustomed to command and to see her orders executed without discussion, given the authoritarian tone that she was unable to hide even in the friendly tone with which she addressed John.

-Absolutely.

Emma and I will be fine without Jack in the way.

Isn't it Emma-? John asked with a light-hearted tone in his voice.

There was a noise of quick steps on the parquet floor and the next moment, Sherlock heard John's amused laugh (_clearly the little girl had run on the couch next to him, probably throwing herself on him at dead weight_).

-Yes, yes! Uncle John promised to take me to the museum and to we’ll have lunch out...-the little girl immediately replied-Can we have popcorn? - He heard her ask for the next moment.

-I don't think it's ideal for lunch, but maybe I can think about it, if someone will behave well...-replied John.

It was clear from his words that a smile was framing his face and for a moment Sherlock found himself jealous of that little girl, for her ability to make him smile only with a few words, only with her presence.

Once that privilege was reserved only for him...

Following an instinct, Sherlock stood up and, after wearing his blue silk robe, opened the door of his room, thus finding himself in the living room.

The conversation broke off the moment the detective took the first step into the room.

Three pairs of eyes rested on him: two were clearly curious, while the third was slightly concerned about what might happen soon.

No one knew better than John how quickly Sherlock gathered the information he needed to know everything about the person in front of him, and with how little tact he reported his deductions to the person of interest and everyone else nearby.

In that brief silence, and only with a quick glance, Sherlock found confirmation of the first ideas he had about the woman sitting on the couch next to John: she was probably thirty-four or thirty-five years, with a blond hair bob to match a formal work environment and almost certainly male-dominated, accustomed to formal clothes given the almost obsessive way with which she continued to torment the hem of the casual blouse she wore at the time, and above all a curious look, but almost bold with which she continued to scrutinize him, almost certainly to inform him that she was not afraid of him, despite that being the first time they met.

The silence had become heavy and from one moment to the next someone would start talking, asking questions that he was not yet ready to answer, so Sherlock decided to make the first move.

"Forgive me, I wasn't going to disturb you" he said in a moderate voice.

John pressed his lips against each other, unused to a subdued Sherlock, probably wondering how long the chemical or verbal explosions from the man would begin.

-Don’t worry- said the man.

-The kettle is still warm, if you fancy a tea-he added, in an extremely polite tone.

Sherlock nodded and made his way to the kitchen, but John's voice blocked him again.

-Sherlock-.

The detective turned around, causing a slight movement of the blue robe and brought his eyes to the face of the man who had stood up by the sofa.

\- These are Mary Morstan and her daughter Emma.

Emma, Mary this is Sherlock Holmes-said introducing them.

He understood from the sudden expression of dismay on the woman's face that "Mary" was aware of his story, or at least who he was.

The little girl, on the other hand, kept staring at him with a curious look and a slight smile.

"It's nice to meet you" said Sherlock with merely a nod.

He had always hated handshakes, too formal and impersonal, and saw no reason to offer one to a woman who had begun to radiate hostility since she had heard his name, and a little girl who would find her gesture stupid.

-Mr. Holmes- Mary simply said.

Sherlock nodded in return and walked to the kitchen, this time managing to reach it undisturbed.

He worked with kettle and mug making as much noise as possible, trying to give even a minimum of privacy to the two adults, but still managing to hear some whispered phrases.

-Sherlock Holmes? The Sherlock Holmes? -

There was no answer from John, a sign that he had merely nodded.

-But wasn't he dead? - he heard the woman ask again.

"_What a stupid question!_ "Thought Sherlock pouring boiling water into the cup.

For a moment he wondered why he was wasting his time in that cup of tea, aware that it would never be like what John prepared for him, and therefore undrinkable.

-Apparently not-answered John this time.

-Are you okay? - Mary asked.

Even without turning around, Sherlock knew that the woman had taken John's hand between her own: they were dealing with delicate topics, "_feelings_" and showing their closeness, their understanding was typical of most human beings.

But no one could ever fully comprehend the relationship between him and John.

-Are you a friend of Uncle John's? -

A voice too close to him prevented him from hearing John's whispered answer, and led him to take his eyes off the tea bag, languidly abandoned in the cup, and move it on the still little girl to his right who stared at him with a questioning look.

The little girl was also blonde, with a high ponytail that collected her hair, blue eyes that at that moment seemed to want to read inside him to find the answer to her own question, and comfortable clothes to accommodate a day out, presumably around for museums if what he had heard just before was the truth.

Sherlock stared at her for a few more moments before deciding to answer.

-I was. I am-

The little girl seemed to reflect a few seconds on his answer before nodding, deciding that she could trust him.

-Do you want some tea? -he asked her, not knowing what to say to her.

His interactions with children of that age had not been the happiest, more than reasonable reason to delete them from his mental palace, and the last time he had come face to face with a child, the kid had started screaming with all the breath he had in body.

But so far nothing like that had happened, so he wasn't doing so badly, was he?

Personally, Sherlock wouldn't waste a minute of his precious time with that little girl, but it was clear that Emma represented something important to John, so he would try to be civil.

-Mom says I'm too young to drink tea- Emma informed him.

Sherlock shrugged.

"But I'd like a glass of milk" the little girl added.

The detective looked around and, after taking the milk out from the fridge and one of the best glasses they had in the house, brought the half-full glass to Emma, then returned to take care of his own tea, adding two teaspoons of sugar and milk, pouring clearly too much compromising its taste.

He went back to look at the little girl still next to him and realized that she was going to ask him another question.

-Why are you still in your pajamas? - Emma asked.

"I just woke up" Sherlock answered, before taking a sip from his own cup.

-It's late! - she almost scolded him.

"I went to bed late last night" the detective replied.

-Mom says you should never go to bed late at night, otherwise you risk arriving late to school- the little girl informed him, before drinking half the milk in one sip.

-What time do you go to bed then?- Sherlock asked.

-At seven o'clock during the week and eight o'clock on Saturdays and Sundays.

So I can watch "Doctor Who" on tv-she added smiling.

Sherlock frowned and the little girl stared at him a few moments before talking again.

-You do know “Doctor Who”, right? -Emma asked him clearly surprised.

The detective remained silent, embarrassed to admit his own lack.

-Uncle John! -exclaimed the little girl, moving swiftly towards the drawing-room.

Sherlock looked up at the two adults sitting on the couch and realized that their exchange had also been followed in the living room when he saw the amused smile on John's face.

-Yes, Emma? -

-Sherlock doesn't know "Doctor Who”! -she almost took it as a personal affront.

John crossed Sherlock's gaze for a few moments, and the detective could not help but shrug his shoulders.

"I think he erased it from his Mind Palace" John said, prompting a smile for the detective, who tried to hide it with his own cup of tea.

-I can help him! I will tell him the story of the Time Lord and the Tardis and the Ponds and... -

"Okay, I think it's time for me to go" Mary announced as she stood up.

"I know the Doctor's story all too well" she added.

Emma let her mother hug her and put a kiss on both her cheeks.

-Do you remember the rules? - Mary asked her daughter.

Emma nodded.

-Be good, eat your vegetables, brush your teeth and get out of the shower when Uncle John asks me, don't stay up late...- said the little girl as if it were a song.

"Most importantly don’t try to take advantage of John too much" Mary interrupted her daughter.

-Hey! - the doctor complained.

"Sometimes you're too gullible with her" Mary said before laying a kiss on the man's cheek.

-Would you like me to put my military experience to good use? -

"At least she would learn to make her own bed" she joked "I'll call you tonight! Have fun today!" she added.

Mary kissed her daughter again quickly and then walked to the door.

It was only when they heard the front door slamming downstairs that Emma turned to John with a 32-tooth smile.

-I thought she wouldn't leave! - she said before letting go of an amused laugh.

John chuckled in turn, before recomposing.

-Okay, are we ready for the museum? The last thing I want is to spend all morning in a queue- he told her.

Emma turned her gaze to Sherlock, who had been in the kitchen the whole time, despite having now abandoned the cup of tea.

-Do you like dinosaurs? -asked the child to the detective.

-I studied them during my childhood... I was close to finding out the motives of their disappearance-answered the man moving slowly towards the living room.

-Really? -asked in disbelief Emma.

Sherlock shrugged.

-It's a simple chemical reaction-

-Do you want to come with us? -asked the little girl without taking her eyes off Sherlock.

-Emma…-intruded John.

Sherlock looked away from Emma's face and met John's, immediately seizing his discomfort.

It was clear that he did not expect such a proposal from Emma, nor that the detective was so comfortable with the little girl, so Sherlock preferred to remain silent.

"Maybe Sherlock has something else to do" John told the little girl.

-Please! -said Emma, again turned to Sherlock-Uncle John is terrible with dinosaurs! she added, trying to convince him.

-That's not true! - The man retorted.

\- Last time we went to the National History Museum; you spent all your time reading me the information tags! - she reminded him.

Sherlock bent his lips, trying to restrain himself from smiling.

His eyes met John's again and read the internal struggle that stirred in him.

-You don't have to feel obligated. But it's clear that Emma would like it if you joined us- he said.

"_Would_ _you like it John?_ "

It was obvious that that day was not going as John had planned, but that was the first chance he had, since he returned, to spend time with John and Sherlock would not miss that opportunity.

"I'd love to join you" he said.

John merely nodded acknowledging his decision.

-Just give me ten minutes to change and I'm coming with you-

______________________________

True to his promise, Sherlock took only ten minutes to get dressed, and when he stepped out of his bedroom, he was impeccable as usual with a white shirt, buttons invariably stretched on his chest, and a pair of black trousers that put an emphasis on his narrow hips and long legs.

Wrapped in his Belstaff and the ever-present blue cashmere scarf, the detective followed John and Emma down the stairs leading to the front door, always accompanied by the cheerful chatter of the little girl, who seemed intent on telling John everything that had happened to her in the weeks when they had not seen each other.

More than once, Sherlock was on the verge of interrupting her and asking her to keep quiet, or at least talking about less boring topics, but he managed each time to stop himself knowing that John would not appreciate it and that, surprisingly, the doctor seemed to appreciate the nonsense tales of the little girl.

On the short tube ride to South Kensington, Sherlock discovered that the little girl was Mary and Jack’s daughter, the troublesome fly that did not seem to detach from John even a moment, probably a youth experiment from the man.

She lived with her mother just outside London and judging by the number of names she had said during the conversation, she had many friends.

For a moment Sherlock wondered how John found that stories interesting, but never once had the doctor turned his attention away from the little girl, asking the right questions and comments, and even seemed to recognize some of the names said by the little girl, almost certainly thanks to previous conversations.

When they finally arrived at their destination, Emma seemed to remember his presence.

“Have you ever been to the National History Museum? "she asked him as they followed the crowd moving through the underground tunnel that connected the subway with the various museums.

-Not recently.

But my family made various donations to the museum...-Sherlock added almost overthought.

-Seriously? -asked John clearly surprised.

Sherlock met his gaze briefly and nodded.

-Every year Mycroft spends the equivalent of the British public debt on donations to various museums.

I think his name is also on some marble slab somewhere with some other pompous donors as he-commented the detective, causing a slight smile in the other.

-Who's Mycroft? - Emma stepped in looking at both men.

-Sherlock's brother- explained John.

-Really?

I've always wanted a brother or sister, but Mum always says I'm unique and very special- she replied with a smile.

John chuckled, and even Sherlock let himself go to an amused sneer.

"I couldn’t have said better" said the detective.

The first thing that caught Emma's attention when they entered the museum, after a short wait in the front garden, was the skeleton of the dinosaur placed in the center hall.

Emma ran to the huge skeleton and watched it light up in various colors thanks to special artfully placed light bulbs.

-Can I have a pound? -asked the little girl turning to John, who patiently handed her the coin.

Emma dropped it into the donation box next to the skeleton and smiled, clearly satisfied with herself.

Then, instead of immediately lining up for the dinosaur section, already crowded with people, Emma ran to the staircase leading upstairs and, once reached by the two men, turned to them.

-Why are there skeletons hanging from the ceiling?- she asked, pointing to them.

John open his mouth slightly to answer her, but Sherlock preceded him.

-What do you think? - He asked her.

Emma shrugged.

-Are they men or monkeys? - asked Sherlock again, trying to help her.

Emma looked at the skeletons and stared a few moments before looking back on the detective.

-Monkeys-

Sherlock nodded satisfied.

-A long time ago, we were monkeys, then slowly evolved into what we are now.

Whether it was good, however, has yet to be proved...- he added then almost overthought.

Emma remained silent for a few moments, heedless of the people passing by to reach the upper floor or on the stairs to take photographs.

-Then why didn't the same thing happen with the dinosaurs? - she asked again, beginning to descend the stairs alongside Sherlock.

-They did, at least some.

There are some dinosaurs that have turned into reptiles, and others have become aquatic creatures that have sometimes turned into fish- explained patiently Sherlock.

The little girl nodded.

-My teacher didn't tell me all these things when we talked about dinosaurs-

-I am smarter than your teacher-answered Sherlock without unnecessary modesty, leading John to sneer.

Also led by Emma, they made their way to the queue of people waiting to visit the area dedicated to dinosaurs.

For the next two hours, John Sherlock and the little girl were lost in the corridors of the museum, among the various dinosaur fossils, skeletons and the great robot of the T-rex, then moving to the areas dedicated to human biology, with the memory games and the huge reproduction of a seven-month-old fetus in the womb that had particularly affected Emma, and then concluded the visit to the mammal section, with the stuffed reproduction of every possible animal on Earth, extinct or not.

In those two hours, Emma almost never stopped asking questions, always finding Sherlock’s ready answer, eager to show off his knowledge for the first time in years, always accompanied by jokes, conjectures and ironic puns, which helped to make the visit incredibly enjoyable.

What struck John incredibly was Sherlock's behavior.

He had feared that the man would soon tire of following them through the corridors of the museum, beginning to wander alone in search of something interesting for his own mind.

Instead the man had stayed by his side the whole time, chatting mainly with Emma, answering her questions, despite some being clearly silly for the detective's great intellect.

More than once, John had found himself staring at the man with obvious surprise: he had always believed that Sherlock would be embarrassed or uncomfortable with Emma, but he had to quickly think again; watching the two interact would have been believed they had known each other for months if not for years, and not just for a few hours.

Whenever his looks had been intercepted by Sherlock, the man had merely smiled at him, reading on his face everything that was going through his mind, while checking that his behaviour with Emma was socially acceptable.

After an inevitable visit to the museum shop, the trio found themselves outside again, not far from the line of visitors waiting to enter.

John looked up to Emma and smiled, amused by the dinosaur-shaped hat that the little girl had on her head and which she proudly sported.

The next moment his eyes met those of the detective and the two men stared in silence, while John eagerly looked at the other's face, as if he wanted to imprint him in the memory: his eyes quickly caressed the cheekbones pronounced that had always fascinated him, his nose as straight as a sword and that mouth so perfect that it seemed drawn.

"_Oh_ _God... How much I missed all this..._ "

Trying to recover from his treacherous thoughts before Sherlock could read them directly from his face, John cleared his throat and laid his eyes on Emma, who in those few moments of silence had remained beside them and who now watched them curiously.

-What do we do now? - she asked John.

"Ah, let's see" said John, looking at the watch he had on his right wrist - It's lunchtime, I think it's best to look for a restaurant- he said.

-Can we go to Mc Donald's? -asked the little girl with a big smile that she hoped to be convincing.

-Oh, no! I don’t think so –

John immediately smiled when he saw Emma's face clouding, clearly upset.

-How about Angelo’s? - Sherlock proposed John.

The doctor met Sherlock's gaze again and for a moment did not know what to answer: did Angelo know that the man was alive?

John had not returned to his restaurant since The Fall, but it had been reported that Angelo continued to reserve the table next to the window for Sherlock, as a sign of esteem and affection.

-You think it’s appropriate… - John asked without finishing the sentence.

Watson knew that the return from the land of the dead of the Reichenbach's hero had not yet reached the press, and since returning to London Sherlock had spent much of his time in Baker Street, going out only a couple of times to meet with Molly at Barts.

Sherlock shrugged.

-I'm going to have to start somewhere, don't you think? -

-Are you going to eat with us? - John asked him again, aware of his peculiar eating habits.

-That's what you do in a restaurant, isn't it? - Sherlock retorted, not directly answering the question.

At those words, John couldn't help but nod.

After a short cab ride, that left them in Northumberland Street, the trio found themselves in front of the restaurant.

-Are you ready? - John asked, looking quickly at the other man.

Sherlock merely nodded.

When they entered the restaurant, they were greeted by a waiter they had never seen before who tried to direct them to a table away from the windows, but Sherlock headed to what he still considered "their" table after a three-year absence.

-I'm sorry, sir, but that table isn't available.

If you want I can...-reply the waiter, watching helplessly as the trio settled around the table.

-I know.

It's reserved for us-replied Sherlock.

-I think there's a misunderstanding Sir, this table is not available...-repeated the boy, a greater emphasis on the last word.

Sherlock glanced bored at the waiter, and John could not hold back the slight smile that curved his lips: that poor boy did not know what he was against.

-Well, then we have a problem: don't you think it's better if you call the owner? - suggested the detective.

The young waiter nodded his head and turned his back on them, clearly headed to the kitchens in search of Angelo.

Sherlock met John's gaze and looked up to the sky, before turning to Emma.

-Do you know what you're going to eat? - he asked her.

-Pasta-answered her promptly, before silently reflecting a few seconds-If I promise to eat everything, can I have dessert? -she added, this time addressed to John.

The man smiled.

-Ice cream or popcorn, it’s your choice-answered the man.

Emma grunted, clearly upset, and then glanced at Sherlock for help, but the man merely shrugged to tell her that in that situation he could be no help.

The next moment, a figure walked to their table; John barely had time to look up at Angelo, followed a short distance by the efficient waiter, before the man froze in the center of the restaurant, between the tables, an incredulous expression on his face.

"What the hell…” he said, shocked.

-Ah, Angelo!

Could you please explain to your employee that this table is reserved for us?

I tried to tell him in every way, but he seems not to listen to me-said Sherlock, completely heedless of the shock that the restaurateur had just suffered.

-S-Sherlock... What... I thought you…- stammered the man.

-You and the whole British population- retorted to the detective.

Angelo seemed unable to overcome the shock caused by the sudden reappearance of the detective, and John felt a feeling of empathy towards the rugged Italian restaurateur: no one better than him could understand what it felt like.

At least this time, Sherlock got away with it without bruises.

The next moment Angelo seemed to gather his wits and approached the table.

"It's good to see you Sherlock again" he said.

John noticed the shiny eyes and tears that threatened to come out at any moment and smiled.

Sherlock hinted at a smile and nodded.

"The feeling is mutual Angelo" he said sincerely.

Angelo smiled and seemed to rediscover his jovial nature.

-I'll bring you some menus and drinks right away-

Sherlock thanked him with a nod and watched as the man walked away towards the kitchens, almost certainly to give vent to the emotions that the encounter had provoked.

"Well, it went well" Sherlock said.

The next moment three menus were placed on the table by the same waiter, along with an extinguished candle that was placed in the center of the table.

At the sight of the candle, John frowned and then raised his eyes to the sky in frustration: certain things seemed to never change.

Fortunately, the waiter avoided turning it on, perhaps knowing that it would seem inappropriate and embarrassing.

-Why did they bring a candle? - Emma asked immediately.

John shrugged.

-They always do-answered Sherlock for both of us.

-Have you already chosen what to eat? -John meddled, addressed to Emma, to stop the inevitable question he knew would come soon.

Emma focused on the menu for a few moments but, when the waiter was again gone with their orders, she stared at John and watched him for a few minutes.

-Are you two a couple like you and Dad were? - she asked then, venting her curiosity.

John's cheeks immediately turn hot for embarrassment: it wasn't the first time he was asked that question, but if there had been ambiguous behaviour between the two men in the past, now their relationship was so complicated that it was absurd to even imagine such a hypothesis.

Sherlock remained silent, observing various emotions manifest on John's face, unable to find an answer to such a simple question: were they a couple?

In the past they had been partners and roommates, but this had not stopped the various allegations about them and now, even if his confused feelings led him to wonder what the nature of their relationship was.

They weren't friends, not yet, but that day had shown that with a little goodwill from both, they could be friends again.

But Sherlock could not avoid lingering with his mind towards a forbidden thought, which had repeatedly been tickled by Mycroft and Lestrade: would they be able to evolve their relationship, or would they be content with the newfound friendship?

And above all: was that what he wanted?

Sherlock assessed his options, considering the benefits of the friendship between him and John, the staple of his existence made of deductions, cups of tea, outbursts of anger at the fault of human remains in the refrigerator and the absolute certainty that the other would always be there if he needed help.

Taking that extra step, achieving that intimacy that everyone believed was obvious would have meant the point of no return for the detective.

If his relationship with John had evolved further Sherlock would not have been able to let him go: no more uncertainty, no more languid glances from unmarried women desperate for a man, and no more areas of shadow.

It would be obvious to everyone that John Watson and Sherlock Holmes were together... And an unexpected thrill descended the detective's back, forcing him to come to terms with his own feelings and expectations he didn't think he had.

Lost as it was in his thoughts, he did not notice that John had responded to the little girl, to whom she had simply nodded.

At that moment Angelo approached their table with their orders, ending that awkward speech and the unexpected thoughts that had occupied Sherlock's mind and bringing the conversation back to a more light-hearted level.

_________________________________

The rest of the day was spent taking a long walk through Regent's Park, between families with children returning from the zoo not far away and professionals in shorts and white T-shirts taking advantage of the weekend to stretch their legs partially atrophied by the office work, where John did not miss an opportunity to take pictures of Emma, in all possible poses and situations.

Only once was Sherlock framed in a photo, forced to reach Emma at the last moment at her request.

Observing the embarrassed smile that framed the detective's lips, John decided to store the photo jealously, being the first unofficial photo taken from the newspapers he had of the detective.

A sudden thunderstorm forced the trio to rush home.

Emma stopped to greet Mrs. Hudson who, as every time when the child was their guest, had made chocolate and blueberry muffins just for her; for nearly an hour Emma and Mrs. Hudson sat in the woman's kitchen, and the little girl recounted what had happened to her since the last time they had seen each other.

In the short period of time that the two men spent alone in the apartment, Sherlock carefully observed every move of the doctor, as was now his custom, losing himself only briefly in his own Mind Palace for quick deductions and considerations on the day just passed,and it was at the very end of one of his moments "of absence" that he found a cup of tea placed on the coffee table at the right distance so that he could reach it only by stretching his long arms.

The detective glanced at the man and saw him already absorbed in the reading of a paperback, thus allowing himself a slight smile that he hurried to hide behind his own cup.

One sip, however, was enough to reinforce that smile on the perfectly drawn lips of the detective: it was perfect... As only John could do.

The day was quickly coming to an end and in a short time Emma was back in the apartment, shooting a hundred words a second as usual and muttering because she had no intention of taking a bath.

It was only using the "Captain" voice that John managed to convince her to enter the tub and for a few minutes the little girl hummed to herself, while John would flock to the kitchen to prepare popcorn and sandwiches for dinner.

-Sherlock! -

The detective frowned when he heard the call, but he was still motionless.

-Sherlock! -

The two men turned to the ajar bathroom door, before their eyes met, making John shrug his shoulders.

In a single elegant move, Sherlock rose from the couch and made his way to the bathroom, opening the door more and then stealing a look inside and immediately encountering the little girl's gaze.

-Everything all right? -asked after clearing his throat.

"I'm bored" the little girl replied.

Sherlock nodded.

"It's a feeling I can understand" he said.

-Why don't you keep me company? -

The detective snorted, a sour response on the tip of his tongue, but froze and opened the door even more to enter the bathroom, going to sit on the ground right in front of Emma.

-What do you usually do when you bathe? -Sherlock asked her to start the conversation, even though he felt shuddering at the banality of his question.

-I have my toys, but Mom wouldn't let me take them with me.

She says I always carry useless things with me- Emma said moving a hand on the water's surface.

Sherlock nodded and quickly sought a new topic of conversation, but Emma preceded him.

-How did you meet Uncle John? - she asked him curiously.

-Why do you call him "Uncle" John? He's not really your uncle- the detective asked, genuinely curious about that "anomaly."

"I love him" said Emma, as if it was the obvious answer.

Sherlock shrugged, all too aware that feelings were not his forte and settled more comfortably on the cold floor.

-How did you meet Uncle John? -asked Emma again.

-We both needed a roommate, an acquaintance introduced us and... -

-And you have become friends-concluded Emma with an air of purpose.

Sherlock nodded slowly.

"_I have no friends. I only have one._ "

That phrase of a distant speech echoed in his mind: although years had passed and many things had happened in the meantime, that statement was still true today.

-What's your job? -

Emma's voice again intruded into his thoughts, bringing his attention back to the little girl.

"I'm a consultant detective" he said, bending his knees to chest height.

-What's that? -

Sherlock let out a frustrated sigh: if there was one thing he hated was having to repeat his own words.

-I help the police solve crimes... Only when crimes are interesting- hastened to spell it out.

"I've never heard this job" Emma replied, genuinely confused.

Sherlock shrugged.

-Because I'm the only one in the world.

A bit like you: unique and very special- he said with a slight smile.

Emma chuckled at those words, letting herself go under the water's surface for a few moments before re-emerging as if she were a fish.

For a few moments there was silence in the bathroom, interrupted only by a few coughs from Emma, until the little girl laid again her eyes on Sherlock; the man knew instantly that a new question would come soon, so he decided to precede it.

-How did you meet John? - he asked her sincerely curious.

"He was my dad's boyfriend" the little girl said.

Sherlock pressed his lips on each other, trying to curb the question that threatened to leave, but failed to do so.

-And he still is? - he asked her.

Emma shook her head.

-They're friends. Dad always says Uncle John is his best friend- added.

Sherlock could not avoid the pang of jealousy that materialized within himself to those words: John was HIS best friend!

No one else knew him as well as he did, and not only because of his deductions, but thanks to years of life together, always in close contact.

Once again, Emma's voice made its way through his thoughts, bringing his attention back to the little girl.

-I like you.

How come I've never met you before? - she asked him.

Before Sherlock could answer, his senses informed him of John's presence, hidden behind the semi-closed door, listening to the conversation.

Fighting the need to lay his gaze on the door, Sherlock turned another smile to the little girl.

-I've been away for a long time. But now I'm back- he answered.

Emma nodded content with the response, replying to his smile, before disappearing again under the water.

______________________________

The first meeting between Sherlock and the Doctor was not a success, and John had not expected anything different given the inquisitive and analytical mind of his roommate.

After a quick sandwich dinner, Emma had settled in the middle of the sofa, right in front of the television, demanding that the two men sit one to her right and the other to her left.

Always a fan of the show, John had recorded the last episodes aired to see them at every opportunity and that night the choice fell on the episode "_Angels take Manhattan"_: it was a favorite of Emma, especially for the presence of Amy and Rory Pond and for River Song, which Emma adored to the point of wishing she could be her once she grew up.

Before the episode began, Emma had told the detective the succinct story of The Doctor, the last Time Lord, able to regenerate twelve times into twelve different people, and how he traveled through Time and Space aboard his spaceship, the Tardis, to save the world.

-He usually travels alone, but sometimes he shares some of his travels with companions and in recent years he has traveled with Amy and then with Rory-explained the little girl.

-A centurion who waited millennia to meet Amy, aware that she was the love of his life-added John before taking a handful of popcorn.

Sherlock looked up at the sky in front of those words.

-Isn't that romantic? - hurried to say Emma.

The detective shrugged his shoulders and the next moment John started the episode, and for a few minutes the silence fell in the room, until the Doctor appeared on the screen.

"Here he is! He is the Doctor," Emma told Sherlock, pointing to the skinny boy with the bowtie on the screen.

-Too young to be a doctor... And then that tie- said Sherlock, rolling his eyes again.

-Bowties are cool! - Emma replied, chuckling at John.

The trio watched in silence as Rory was catapulted into 1930s New York and contacted the 'fantastic' River Song, making Emma jump on the couch in excitement.

It was when the Tardis appeared on screen that Sherlock could not hold back his questions further.

-So, this Doctor can go anywhere in Time and Space in a police phone box? -asked in a voice slightly veiled with boredom.

"It's not a police box, it's a spaceship" said John, "It just chose to take on the appearance of a police cabin" he added.

-Would you know how to build it? -Sherlock asked again, this time addressed to Emma.

The little girl chuckled.

-No! Only Time Lords know how to build it and how to drive it- he explained patiently, like she was talking to a child of her own age.

Sherlock sighed.

"Boring" he said.

Despite this, however, he remained seated on the couch, his gaze fixed on the television.

As the episode went on, Emma laid more comfortably against John's side, leading the man to place an arm over her shoulders.

_“_ _Why did you lie to me?_

_When one's in love with an ageless god who insists on the face of a twelve-year-old, one does one's best to hide the damage”._

At those words John risked a glance at Sherlock, realizing once again how close that episode was to their situation.

John still remembered when he first saw the episode, finding himself in tears and short of breath as the credits flowed through the video.

Who knew that one day he would be sitting on the couch a short distance from Sherlock watching that same episode?

Feeling observed, the detective looked in his direction and their eyes met for a few moments, before the doctor returned to the screen where Amy and Rory were fleeing from a horde of Weeping Angels.

It was when the couple found themselves on the roof that John began to feel a slight tremor in his lazily placed hand on Emma's shoulders, leading him to clenched it and reopened it several times trying to control the tremor.

"_If you love me, trust me and push!_

_I can't!_

_You have to!_

_Could you? If it was me could you do it?_

_To save you I could do anything_"

For the first time since returning home, Sherlock thought back on that day when he stood on the roof ledge of Barts Hospital looking down at John for the last time before launching himself into the void and leaving behind everything important in his life.

_"**That's what people do, isn't it? Leave a note..."**_

Sherlock Holmes had never been a sentimental man, but he could empathize with the man's words on screen without any problem: he had done anything to make John sit next to him.

On screen the red-haired woman was sacrificing her life so she could be reunited with her husband once again sent back in time by the last surviving Weeping Angel and for a moment Sherlock wondered if John would do the same.

Once he would not have had the slightest doubt, but now seeing how their complicated relationship was he no longer had that security.

"_Tell her that if she is patient the days are coming that she’ll never forget; tell her that she’ll fall in love with a man who’ll wait two thousand years just to keep her safe."_

Once again, the two men looked at each other and in that brief moment, as a thousand silent words and a thousand silent promises were uttered, Sherlock had no doubt: John Watson would still take a bullet for him to be sure of having him still by his side.

The sound of the music on the credits interrupted their silent speech by bringing the eyes of the blonde to the little girl.

It was finally time to put her to bed.

__________________________

-Ok.

I want the truth: I want to know everything that has happened in these three years.

Don't leave anything out and don't omit anything-

It took half an hour for Emma to complete all the necessary ablutions before going to bed.

John had accompanied her to his bedroom and told her a short story before giving her a good night and returning to the living room, where he had gone busy tidying up the room before briefly entering the kitchen to pour himself a generous glass of whiskey.

Only then had he turned his gaze to Sherlock, still sitting on the sofa with his gaze fixed on the off-turned off television and had let out a long sigh.

After the speech he had dropped into the armchair, taking a small sip of whiskey and silently waited for the other to speak.

Sherlock had remained silent for a few moments, unsure how to begin the speech, until he let a sigh leave his lips, preparing for the long speech that awaited him.

-I knew I was going to die as soon as Moriarty was acquitted in the trial.

I had long hoped that I could avoid my death, I believed to the last minute that I could find an alternative, a solution to the problem, but with the appearance of Richard Brooks it became clear that I could not have done otherwise.

I had to do it... I had no other choice- he started.

Sherlock spoke at length, recounting in detail everything that had happened from that day three years earlier at Barts, going through the injuries sustained during the Fall and the tricks taken to make everyone, John included, believe that Sherlock Holmes was indeed dead.

He explained in detail how he had infiltrated Moriarty's criminal network several times, dismantling cell after cell, resorting to force when the situation demanded it and how Sebastian Moran, Moriarty's right-hand man and killer assigned to John, had managed several times to escape him thus prolonging his return home.

-The day I finally got my hands on Moran was one of the happiest days of my life-commented Sherlock.

During that long speech John had remained silent, his gaze fixed on the other man face, interrupting the monologue only a few times to get more information or to voice his indignation at the villainousness shown by the detective on some occasion.

-As soon as I turned Moran into the FBI's hands, I took a flight to London... and here I am-concluded Sherlock by placing his joint hands under the chin.

John nodded slowly.

But there was one last thing John absolutely needed to know.

-I couldn't let him hurt you. I couldn't- he said interrupting mid-speech to swallow the knot that suddenly clenched his throat- I know you think I didn't trust you, and I know I hurt you... More than I can imagine, but I was willing to sacrifice my life to prevent Moriarty or someone of his goons who hurt you.

-Everything I've done, I've done so that you could be here today and look at me with that uncertain look on my face, undecided whether to believe me or not- concluded Sherlock again.

John let out a slight smile and watched him in silence for a few minutes before speaking again.

-Did you tell me everything? He asked.

Sherlock remained silent for a few seconds.

In his account he had described in detail all that had happened, all the people he had met in his path, but he had deliberately left out a detail: Irene.

John had been convinced for years that dominatrix was dead, so why bring down that certainty for someone he would never meet again?

_What you don't know can't hurt you..._

Slowly he nodded.

John sighed and nodded in turn.

-Thank you... For being honest with me- he said before standing up with some difficulty.

Baker Street 221 was shrouded in silence and the darkness of the night and for a brief moment the two men stood in front of each other not knowing how to end that long and strange day, until John unexpectedly made his way to Sherlock's room to return a few moments later, the fingers of the left hand tightened around the handle of the leather case of the violin.

"I thought you might want it back" he said simply by holding the case to Sherlock.

In the moment it took the detective to tighten his fingers around the handle, his fingertips grazed the back of the doctor's hand, releasing a slight electric shock that led John to quickly withdraw his hand.

Gently handling the case, Sherlock pulled out the instrument, perhaps the only object in the world that had his unconditional attention for years, and let his fingers touch the crate with cherished and ill-concealed love, before picking up the case top and control inside.

"It’s in very good condition" he said before looking back to the doctor.

"I couldn't let them ruin themselves" John replied.

"_I would never have forgiven myself."_

Sherlock allowed himself a slight smile before making a small bow with his head.

-Thank you-

John nodded, before sitting back in his own chair.

-Why don't you play something? -he asked.

"I haven't trained for three years" said Sherlock, while placing the instrument against my shoulder.

"I wouldn't be able to recognize the difference, you know that" John said, with an amused smile that soon covered the other man lips’ too.

In the living room, silence fell for a few moments before the sweet notes of the violin, again in the hands of its rightful owner, rang out in the room, giving the two men the feeling that, although the road was still long, everything would return to normal.

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**Notes for the Chapter:**

> References from Doctor Who: "The Angels takes Manhattan"


	5. My name is John Watson

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You stupid idiot! How can I be happy without you?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone! I changed the tags of this Fan Fictions, so before you read this chapter read CAREFULLY all the tags and if some of it troubles you, skip this chapter and I'll see you next week! ^_^

Gregory Lestrade inserted the key into the lock and entered the apartment, leaving behind the cold rain and sharp cold that had accompanied him all the way home.

He took off his raincoat and left his shoes at the entrance, next to another pair of painted shoes, considerably more expensive and in perfect condition.

He crossed the short corridor that separated the entrance from the living room, furnished in warm tones and with the impeccable taste of his companion, and listened for a few moments: in the distance a voice was conducting a conversation in a foreign language, with the practical and sure tone that he had now learned to associate with the public figure of his companion.

Mycroft was home.

Smiling Greg decided to leave him to his work and made his way to the main bedroom, undoing the buttons of the white shirt now full of wrinkles.

He turned on the light in the bedroom and once again looked around, looking at the tailoring suit folded neatly on an armchair to the right of the bed, the Egyptian cotton sheets perfectly pulled and the various photos placed on the dresser or hanging on the walls, which portrayed the couple.

Greg took off his shirt, then headed to the bathroom, opening the shower taps to reach the optimal temperature of the water, before turning back and getting rid of the rest of the clothes, leaving them lazily on the bed in a bundle.

Completely naked, he went back to the bathroom and stood under the shower jet, vigorously rubbing his skin, trying to erase the smell of the road and the memory of his workday.

It had been a tiring day, like so many others, but what had made matters worse was the psychological pressure kindly offered, as usual, by Sherlock Holmes.

Since his return the detective had not missed an opportunity to torment him with his demands, which had brought back a sense of normalcy in his life, but until now Greg had proved adamant: Sherlock Holmes would no longer cooperate with Scotland Yard.

For once, Greg had agreed with his superiors, sharing the decision to exclude the consultancy from the crime scenes or homicide section, to prevent the entire MET from finding itself again implicated in the detective's problems as it happened three years earlier.

Greg offered his face to the water jet and took a moment to think back to the three years just passed: the investigations, the referral of almost half of the Homicide squad directed by Lestrade and the purgatory to the municipality squad to which he had been confined for two years, before he earn the trust of his superiors again.

There was nothing more important to Greg than his career, and not for the hope of one day becoming Superintendent or another big shot, but simply for the need to be useful to the community.

As John Watson tried to do good with his medical knowledge, Greg Lestrade scrambled to do the same with his work.

He loved his job and wouldn't let Sherlock take it away from him again.

Greg let the water slide over his strained shoulders and tried to relax.

The week that had just begun would be difficult, he was aware of it, but now he could not hold back: the next day there will be the press conference to announce the return to the world of living of Sherlock Holmes and a few days later there would be John’s ceremony.

Greg allowed himself a little smile, sincerely proud of the progress made by his friend, and reminded himself to call John after dinner to get the last details.

Feeling slightly more humane, Greg closed the water and exited the shower, tied a white towel around his hips and grab another to dry the rest of his body.

He approached the sink and, after passing a hand on the steam-covered mirror, allowed himself a long look at his own reflected image.

The wrinkles around his eyes had been heightened, as had the black dark circles that accompanied him since he started the police academy.

Fortunately, his body was dry and snappy, thanks to the hours spent chasing that wild madman through the city's alleys, saving him from the belly that it seemed to afflict many of his colleagues of his age.

He passed a hand on his jaw, feeling under his fingers the bristles of a day, considering for a moment whether to shave or not, then deciding in favor.

He freed himself from the bathrobe he had tightened around his waist, throwing it in the dirty laundry basket and headed back to the room, where he quickly dressed in comfortable clothes.

Only then did he make his way to the kitchen, where he was greeted by a pleasant smell of food, which made him smile.

Chinese.

He stood by the kitchen threshold and the smile grew bigger when he saw the figure on his shoulders next to the kitchen counter, busy filling a plate of food, launching every two seconds a glance at the display of his iPhone.

"This is my favorite version of you" Greg said, leaning against the door jamb, his arms folded against his chest.

Without turning Mycroft smiled slightly.

"If it was up to you, I would be forced into a boring homelife" he replied, before procuring a second dish and filling it with a much lower serving of food.

-I could never do that! Who knows what would happen to the Empire if you retired to private life- Greg replied before taking the few steps that separated him from his partner?

Mycroft had also got rid of his work clothes, wearing a pair of raw wool pants and a high-necked dark red sweater that highlighted his complexion and perfectly matched his reddish-brown hair, for once free from the gel with which the man controlled them.

Mycroft felt a callous hand settle on his right side and a little kiss was placed on the back of his neck, triggering a shiver that ran through the man's back.

"More" Greg said, referring to the small portion Mycroft had prepared for himself, before stealing a spring roll from the container.

"Gregory, you know I don't need a lot of food" said the man.

-I've heard it too many times from your brother… - Greg interrupted it before taking another bite.

-As much as it pains me admit it, this time my brother is right-

-You can also list all the medical research that proves your point of view, but personally I prefer a little more meat when I hug you...-said Greg before taking the two dishes and heading to the living room.

Before he met Greg, Mycroft Holmes would never have thought of eating his meals on the living room couch when a perfectly functioning table awaited them in the dining room, yet Gregory had made him realize that certain rigid "formalities" could be set aside when they were alone, leaving room for a spontaneity entirely alien from the older Holmes.

Initially Mycroft had made some resistance, but in the end, he had to admit with himself that he preferred that closeness to having to speak on opposite sides of a table.

After all, they had so little chance of being together because of their work commitments that Mycroft would certainly not refuse every possible opportunity to be close to his Gregory.

They settled on the couch and Greg turned on the TV on the news channel, but lowered the volume to a minimum, aware that his partner would be able to follow each service by reading the anchorwoman's lips.

"Is everything ready for the big announcement?" asked Mycroft, carrying a few pieces of chicken chow mein to his lips.

Greg nodded.

\- The press has been informed, but they still don't know the reason for the press conference.

I must admit I'm curious to see their faces admitted.

"Let's just hope my brother doesn't act like an unbearable spoiled child like he used to" said the other, taking a sip of wine from his own glass.

Greg snickered.

"I wouldn't rely much on that," he retorted, leading Mycroft to nod, causing the room to fall into a silence interrupted only by the sound of forks on the plates.

"Will John be present at the press conference?" asked Mycroft.

"You know the answer to this question better than I do Myc."

Mycroft knew that the situation between the two men had improved slightly, that John had allowed his brother to explain himself and recount the adventures he had been in the last few years and was also aware that his brother had omitted a very important detail, which would make things worse irreparably between the two men if it had come to light one day.

Despite the long and exhaustive explanation, however, the two men were far from a point of agreement on which to rebuild their friendship: John had resumed dispensing tea and was slightly more attentive to his brother's basic needs, but continued at the same time to live his life separated from Sherlock finding solace in the routine he had established during the previous three years.

Suddenly Mycroft remembered a detail that led him to stare at Greg for a few moments.

"If I'm not mistaken this week, Dr. Watson also has something to celebrate" he said cautiously.

Greg's face stiffened slightly to those words, leading him to lay the plate on his lap and take a generous sip from his own glass of wine.

"Mhmh" Greg merely replied.

"How are you going to celebrate this milestone?" Mycroft asked with caution.

-I don't think he wants to celebrate given the situation. - mumbled Greg in response.

-Nonsense.

You always must rejoice in your own successes, especially those you get with effort and constant work- answered the other.

Greg remained silent a few moments, considering whether to make Mycroft aware of what he knew.

-John invited some of us to be present at the meeting.

I think it's part of the healing path-.

The other nodded slowly, meeting his partner’s gaze.

-I don't think I'm wrong if I assume my brother is missing in this group of friends-

Greg nodded.

-As far as I know, John didn't mention it with Sherlock.

He is very reluctant to talk about what happened with us, he is still very ashamed of it, so I do not think Sherlock has been informed about it.

As long as you...-added Greg caught by a sudden thought that Mycroft hastened to disprove.

-I gave you my word that Sherlock would not know about it, and so it is- he simply said.

Greg nodded.

-Thank you... For keeping quiet and for everything you've done-

Mycroft downplayed his thanks with a quick gesture of his hand, aware that everything he had done to help John Watson had been done in the best interests of his brother.

If anything had happened to John, Sherlock would never have forgiven him.

____________________________________

On the morning of April 16, John Watson was on duty at the clinic.

He had the morning shift, as had already happened for the previous days, and had gone to work early to organize his work and enjoy the second cup of tea of the day without interruption.

That morning, he had also made a phone call to Harry to remind her of the date they had that week, getting reassurance from her sister of her presence.

Since Sherlock's death, his relationship with Harry had changed: his increasingly fragile and troubled sister had taken on the role of protector.

John was not ashamed to admit that probably without his sister, and the close circle of friends, he would not have come out of the black hole that had threatened several times to swallow him.

After Sherlock's return, Harry had repeatedly offered to "improve" Sherlock's appearance with a pair of well-placed punches, only reassuring herself when she knew John had preceded her.

The clinic had begun to come alive at the end of their phone call and, after saying goodbye to his sister, John had set out to work, visiting the various patients assigned to him.

A few hours later, hearing yet another knock on the door, he prepared to welcome a new patient, but was surprised when Sarah appeared on the doorstep.

John, standing behind his desk, smiled.

"Do you need a hand?" he asked her in a warm tone.

Sarah remained silent for a few moments, clearly uncomfortable, the fingers of her left hand still clenched around the door handle.

"Is everything all right?" asked John, slightly frowning.

"There's something you need to see" Sarah said before turning around and heading down the corridor again.

After grabbing his cane, John followed her down the hallway leading to the waiting room.

That's when he heard Sherlock's voice.

The detective disliked the clinic particularly, preferring the clinical and impersonal contact of the morgue to the "_hypochondriac and petulant_" patients who crowded the clinic, thus avoiding the clinic as much as possible.

But there was something different about the detective's voice: it came to the ear amplified, almost distorted, and John just needed to enter the waiting room to understand that it came from the small television installed in the top corner of the wall.

What the hell was Sherlock doing on television?

It took him only a few moments to understand: the return of the great Sherlock Holmes.

He looked at the detective's face in the small screen, recognizing in the background the press room of Scotland Yard... Greg was almost certainly in the corner, his arms folded against his chest as if he wanted to protect himself from any vitriolic phrases the detective would have reserved for the press.

Why didn't he know anything about it?

That morning he had briefly seen the detective, but the man had not made the slightest hint at the press conference; for a moment John relive the past days to find a clue, without finding anything besides the countless messages Sherlock had sent from his mobile phone and the hours he spent playing the violin, as if he wanted to recuperate the lost years.

He looked closely at the man's face and noticed the serious expression and the pulled muscles that manifested discomfort with that situation.

John wondered how much of the detective's adventures had been revealed to the reporters, hoping for a moment that the man had left aside the bloodiest details.

"Will he be back working with Scotland Yard?" asked one of the journalists in the front row.

Sherlock thinned his lips, trying to control the answer he had on the tip of his tongue before answering.

Only a few people could recognize Sherlock's "feelings" from a slight change of expression, and perhaps John was the only one who fully understood them: he knew that the detective was bored, more than usual because of the lack of work, and that only the tense air in the house had prevented him from making more graffiti on the walls or giving himself to the most absurd experiments.

John sincerely hoped that that press conference would have a positive outcome, bringing back to the man the private cases that would distract him from the constant buzz of his mind.

-If Scotland Yard thinks it is appropriate to use my services, they know where I am – Sherlock simply answered.

"What about John Watson?" asked a woman in the crowd of reporters.

To hear his name, John annulled the murmur that had developed in the waiting room and focused exclusively on small television waiting for the answer.

The press conference had to have started a while if they had come to touch on that topic.

"He's my roommate" Sherlock said.

Those words would have offended him in the past, but now they seemed to be the most suitable: it was clear that Sherlock was trying to draw attention to himself, to avoid the most inconvenient questions.

"He was also his partner; he was cooperating with you in the investigation" said another.

"I don't rule out being able to reconnect with our working relationship in the future" Sherlock informed them.

In the very distant future, John thought.

"What about your emotional relationship?" asked another reporter.

"Gentlemen, why don't we try to... “Lestrade stepped in.

"Why don't you process your question?" said Sherlock, quietly silencing Lestrade, staring at the journalist.

The woman held on to that look for a few moments before deciding to speak again.

-You e Mr. Watson…-

-Dr. Watson- interrupted Sherlock firmly.

That clarification struck him: no one had ever been as proud of his qualifications as Sherlock, not even his parents.

-You and Dr. Watson were inseparable at the time of your disappearance; and it was Dr. Watson who created the "_Believe in Sherlock Holmes_" movement through the pages of his blog.

It comes naturally, then, to wonder whether this passionate defense on Dr. Watson's part does not hide feelings that go beyond the friendship long professed by you and Dr. Watson.

Maybe the ultimate attempt by a wounded lover to rehabilitate his partner's memory...- ended the woman.

For a few moments Sherlock remained silent, staring at the camera but did not really see it and John was sure that that moment was dedicated to him, as if the detective was looking for his gaze among the many viewers who were listening at the time, silently asking him how to answer.

And at that moment John found himself nodding, a lump in his throat, curious in return to hear the detective's answer.

What did he want to hear? Did he want a passionate declaration of love in public in front of journalists, or to hear Sherlock demean his and John feelings, as usual?

Strangely, John could not give an answer: in the past he would steal the microphone from the detective to proclaim for the umpteenth time his heterosexuality and specify that the relationship between them was pure and simple friendship.

But those three years had fostered so many changes that made it impossible to hide behind that lie.

The next moment Sherlock's crystal-clear gaze had returned to the journalist.

"It's heartwarming that you still manages to believe in love given your disastrous romantic relationship with the photographer of your newspaper at the end of the room-said in a professional tone, showing off his skills as he used to, leading John to hint a slight smile.

-As for your question, I can't answer for Dr. Watson, but personally I'm married to my work and I can't afford distractions of any kind.

Now that we have clarified my relationship with Dr Watson can we return to the main topic of the press conference? -.

At the end of the sentence, John turned his back on the waiting room and the small television, the voice of a different journalist in the background, heading to his office, aware of Sarah's attentive gaze on himself.

"_Married_ _to my work..._ "

How many times had he heard him say those words?

It was the first thing he had told him that distant evening during their first case, sitting at a table at Angelo's.

So why were those words still hurting?

He locked the office door behind him and dragged himself to his desk, dropping into his chair.

It wasn't hard to see why those words bothered him so much: he had three years to come to terms with his feelings.

He could say that the relationship with Sherlock was simple friendship, like the one with Greg and Jack, but he had never felt jealous of the two's conquests as when Irene had entered their lives, stealing the detective's attention.

If it was Mike who died suddenly, perhaps attempting suicide, John would have been sorry, he would have missed him, but he would not have come to destroy himself physically and psychologically as he had done with Sherlock's suicide.

Between them there had always been an ambiguous relationship, bordering on obsession, and the doctor admitted with himself that, excluding the severed parts in the refrigerator, he would change nothing: it is difficult to find someone who adapts so well to your habits and your quirks, especially at such a mature stage of your life, and that you complete yourself with its peculiarities.

In his relationship with Sherlock, John had found everything he wanted, even willing to give up sex for the rest of his life if this represented a problem in their "friendship".

That's why Sherlock's abandonment hurt so much...

By jumping from that roof, Sherlock had destroyed all the dreams of a shared life once he retired to private life, the idea of the house in Devon where the detective would take care of his beloved bees and John would devote himself to writing.

But above all, what infuriated him was the certainty that those dreams, those thoughts had not touched the analytical mind of the consultant even once.

_________________________________

-Boring-.

The press conference had finally ended and fortunately Sherlock had maintained a decent attitude despite some spiteful questions from the journalists.

Greg had feared the worst when John's name was inevitably made, but Sherlock had merely humiliated the journalist and given her the "standard" answer on the subject.

-What did you expect? It's a press conference, not a crime scene- the Inspector said.

"If it goes on like this, I'm going to end up forgetting what a crime scene is like-" Sherlock said.

Greg made a slight sneer.

-You are a drama queen Sherlock-

The detective turned to meet Greg's gaze and stared at him for a few moments.

-I need it Lestrade " he said.

-Why don't you ask John? I think he's more qualified than I am, and then, in case you forgot, I already have a boyfriend-replied Greg, trying to change the subject.

On the few occasions when he and Sherlock had been alone, the consultant had not missed an opportunity to point out the number of files on his desk, all clearly unsolved cases, each time volunteering to deal with it, as if he were a recruit just arrived at the police station and eager to make himself useful.

Being honest with himself, Lestrade was willing to admit that he would gladly accept Sherlock's help, despite the not-so-veiled insults and invectives that would surely accompany him, but after what had happened the last time they had worked together, he didn't feel like risking it again, even if it meant the increase in unsolved crimes.

The annoyed look that Sherlock turned to him for those words, made the little smile that framed his lips disappear.

"Sarcasm, Lestrade?" he simply said.

Greg snorted, clearly frustrated.

-I can't give you any case, you know Sherlock!

Not after the last time- he said confirming his decision for the umpteenth time.

The detective remained silent for a few moments, giving rise to the other's hope that perhaps this time the message had come loud and clear.

Hope belied in the instant Sherlock opened his mouth again.

-What about the old unsolved cases? I could take care of those, and I'm willing to bet there's plenty of them, if we look at the state of your office-he proposed.

Smart bastard, as usual!

Greg passed his hand through his short hair and watched him under his hand for a few seconds, considering the proposal: what trouble could it be if Sherlock dealt with years-old cases?

"I have to think about it" he said without making any promises.

Sherlock sank his hands into the deep pockets of the Belstaff and nodded.

-For now, that's enough, but know it's a short-term proposition until my clients come forward.

After all, it will be a win-win situation for you: I'd handle the unsolved cases, and John would continue to work with you on the new cases-

Hearing his friend's name, Greg wondered how the man had taken the news of the press conference.

-What did John say of today's press conference? -

Sherlock's shoulders stiffened, and that simple gesture was enough to make him understand what the other was hiding from him.

-He didn't know that, did he?

Christ Sherlock, did you call the press conference without warning him? - he said in a tone of reproach.

"What was the need to warn him since he would not be present anyway?" asked the black-haired man, trying to find a logical explanation for his misdeeds.

"It would have helped to avoid the surprise of finding your face on television!" retorted Greg, raising his voice slightly.

-It's highly unlikely that John saw the press conference because he was busy at his "beloved" clinic...-

The acidic tone that clearly transpired from Sherlock's words led Greg to ask him another question.

-John's avoiding you, isn't he? -

On the young Holmes's face clearly transpired how much that speech annoyed him.

The man never spoke of feelings, trying to hide his own under a mask of indifference well developed over the years, so being asked such personal questions made him uncomfortable and above all annoyed him for his ignorance on the matter.

“Are you still fighting?" Greg asked again.

"No, we're not fighting!" said Sherlock with clenched teeth.

-But you don't get along the way you used to... -guessed Greg.

Sherlock snorted, morphing his face in a bored expression.

-I don't want to talk about this-.

Greg nodded slowly, tucking his hands into the suit's pockets, taking a couple of steps back.

-Go home Sherlock! -

Then Lestrade turned his back on him and headed to his office.

There was very little he could do for that idiot if he didn’t decide to admit his feelings.

________________________________

Taking advantage of the shock suffered by the press conference, John had left the clinic early, with the secret hope of finding a hole deep enough or far enough to hide before the journalists assaulted him.

But of course, that wasn't his lucky day...

He had just passed the sliding doors of the clinic when three journalists moved almost in unison towards him, with smartphones pointed at him for a statement on the return of the "great" Sherlock Holmes.

In one corner of the ambulance parking lot, John saw the SUV he would recognize everywhere, ready to save him if only he had moved a step in his direction, but John walked down the street.

-Dr. Watson are you happy with Mr. Holmes's return? - yelled at a reporter.

"_I’m as pleased as punched_" John thought to himself, clenching his teeth to avoid giving voice to his thought.

"Will you work together again?"

-Should we expect some happy announcements? -

The two questions fired at the same time by two different journalists infuriated him even more: what right had those people to torment him?

What were they hoping to achieve? A passionate love confession?

John continued to walk, careless of people's curious glances and shouted questions at him at a speed unthinkable even for Sherlock and tried to stop a taxi, which passed him by careless of his outstretched arm.

He had to wait a few minutes for a black cab to finally stop by his side.

The driver, seeing the assault on his person and the crutch he tried to keep firmly planted on the ground to avoid falling, got out of the car and helped him climb in, before driving away from the reporters.

It was only when the car was moving away from that crowd of vultures that John began to breathe again, hiding his face in his hands that shook for the frustration and adrenaline.

Fifteen minutes later, the taxi stopped at the designated address and, after paying for the ride with the addition of a generous tip to thank the taxi driver, John went out onto the road and looked at the blue door in front.

He climbed the three steps and knocked on the door, then waited.

The door opened a few moments later, and when John met Jack's gaze, he realized that he too had seen the press conference.

The man stepped aside and let him into the house, waiting to be behind a closed door to hug him.

Squeezed into the reassuring embrace of his best friend, John let himself go, freeing himself from the military posture he had assumed the moment he saw the journalists and lacing an arm around the man's waist, hiding his face in his chest.

-Come with me- finally spoke Jack after a few minutes, guiding him to the drawing-room.

If the living room of Baker Street was an explosion of chaos, with its skull, moose head and the various volumes that Sherlock left everywhere, this room was the complete opposite: everything was arranged in a functional way and at the limit of obsession.

"Everything must be in its place" Jack always repeated.

There were also two armchairs and a sofa, but while those in his living room told a story, with various acid burns or tea stains, these seemed to have just come out of the furniture store.

A flat screen tv was placed on the wall at the bottom of the room, perfectly in front of the sofa; a desk was on the right side of the room with a laptop and everything needed to work arranged neatly on the coffee table.

The only photos that were around the room were, of course, those of Jack and Emma, excluding a couple where John and Mary were portrayed.

John sank into his favorite armchair and closed his eyes for an instant.

When he opened them again a bottle of beer was placed on the coffee table a short distance from the armchair and Jack was sitting on the sofa to his left; for a few moments the two men remained silent, drinking their own beers, until John decided to speak.

"Have you seen it?" he asked, looking up at his friend.

Jack nodded.

"How do you feel?" he asked cautiously.

John snorted.

"What do I look like?" he asked, not yet fully ready to address that subject.

An ironic grin curved Jack’s lip.

"You look like shit” Jack simply answered, before he brought the bottle to his lips.

John stretched his lips in an amused smile and nodded.

"That's how I feel" he said.

–The press conference was not over yet and already there were three journalists waiting for me outside the clinic, shouting their idiotic questions.

They would have followed me all the way here if it wasn't for the cab... You should have seen the faces of the people around me- murmured John annoyed.

"They have to find something to do, since Kate decided to stay at the palace this week" said Jack.

-If I went to "Pride" tomorrow night, everyone would know my face, and not because I'm a regular visitor, but because of my "lost love"...

There'd be a line of guys ready to flirt with me just so they could brag about how they slept with Sherlock Holmes' ex-boyfriend... You don't know how much I'd like to fall asleep and wake up when everything is back to normal- retorted John snorting annoyedly.

The last sentence caused a shiver down Jack's back, bringing to mind an unpleasant past not too far away.

"Can I book in advance?" asked Jack, trying to lighten the mood.

John gave him a tiny smile and remained a few moments in silence, reflecting on the situation in which he had found himself entangled despite himself.

-I thought I left this behind: I had to deal with all this shit three years ago, I was sure I could live my life peacefully, but of course I hadn't come to terms with Sherlock Holmes... The only idiot in the world capable of returning from the realm of the dead- carried on John, letting the frustration and anger shine through on his face.

Jack put his hand on John’s nearest knee, trying to calm him down, throwing an affectionate smile at him.

"Is there anything I can do for you?" he asked.

"Can you get all the reporters away from my house?" asked John, meeting his friend's gaze.

Jack held his face with a thoughtful expression before shaking his head.

-Ah, no. I still don't have enough power to shut down all the news outlets in England.

But I could offer you a cover, if you want...-added later.

John frowned to those words and waited for the other to elaborate his words.

\- I could pretend to be your partner, so at least the reporters would stop asking you questions about you and Sherlock, or at least about a possible relationship between you two-explained Jack.

"I'd ruin your reputation" the doctor jokingly said.

Jack smiled and shook his head.

-Are you kidding me? It's my only chance to date a celebrity" he jested.

John chuckled, before shrugging his shoulders.

-Okay, why not... After all, you're the one who gets the worst deal in this situation-he retorted in the same joking tone as the other.

-Do you think I don't know? At least I don't have secret admirers ready to skin you for our fake relationship-commented Jack before taking the last sip from their own bottle, before getting up and heading to the kitchen to get another pair.

-What about Sherlock?" he asked while he was still in the kitchen.

"He’s a pain in my ass, dead or alive," John answered, staring at the floor in front of him.

A second bottle appeared on the coffee table a short distance from his right arm, leading John to look up.

"What will he say if you and I "get back together"?" asked Jack, folding his fingers in the air to form quotation marks.

"He's not my boyfriend" John readily retorted.

-I'm your best friend, you don’t need to lie to me-

John remained silent, not knowing how to respond, letting his mind wander for a few moments in that dark side of his mind where his feelings for Sherlock were bound...

What would Sherlock have thought of a relationship between him and Jack?

There were various choices: he could erase it from his mind, cataloguing it as an unimportant event; or there was the remote possibility that that announcement would hurt him.

On another occasion that thought would have saddened him, leading him to operate with the utmost caution, but what Sherlock had done to him that day did not lead him to be kind towards the man.

John was aware, however, that a relationship with Jack, despite being a cover-up, would put an end to a possible development in their friendship.

The doctor shook his head, trying to get rid of those thoughts that contributed to his gloomy mood.

-We were friends.

Sherlock was my best friend... He had become the gravitational pole of my existence.

Then he was gone and honestly, I don't know if I'll be able to forgive him...-said leaving the sentence in half, unable to get rid of the knot that suddenly clenched his throat.

Jack remained silent, waiting, aware that his friend needed a few minutes to recompose.

-There was a time, years ago, when I genuinely hoped that our friendship could become something more serious, but then he...

He jumped off a roof and I tried to survive for three years since his disappearance; and now all I can think about is that I wasted three years of my life destroying myself for a person who was around the world solving the biggest puzzle of his life, without even giving a thought to what he had left behind...

I know it's a petty and selfish thing to say, but I can't...- he commented by interrupting again and taking a long sip from his own bottle, trying to control his own confused emotions.

Jack watched him carefully for a few seconds before stretching out to his friend and place a hand on his right arm.

-Do you want to know what I think of this whole thing? -

John sighed, letting himself go against the back of his armchair.

"No, but I'm convinced you're going to tell me anyway" he replied.

-I think you’ve really lost your pretty head for our dear detective... Despite all the anger and frustration, you feel now, you're really in love with it.

And I don't think it's a recent feeling, maybe you've been aware of it for some time, but you preferred to ignore your feelings given his "death."

The only problem is that you have a fucking fear that he will hurt you again-

John remained silent, not angry or protesting Jack's speech, fully aware that the man was right.

-He will- he murmured after a few moments.

"You don’t know that John!" said the other, trying to reason with him.

-But I know Sherlock, I'm one of the few who really knows him, and I know that if I gave him another chance and he let me down again, there will be nothing left of me- answered John honest.

Jack observed the tired and defenseless expression that had suddenly sat on his friend's face and sighed.

-Okay, but why don't you think about it for a second?

What would be left of you if you didn't take this chance?" he asked, trying to make John think.

John sighed; what would be left?

A life full of friends, his work, the chance to fall in love with a quiet man without too much trouble and completely unable to make even the smallest deduction.

But at the same time, he would have to live with the remorse of not grasping that unexpected possibility, spending the rest of his life wondering "What if..." with the knowledge that you have lost something unique.

-Nothing-answered at last.

Jack nodded and let the silence fall again, taking a long sip of beer.

-You're my boyfriend! You should be jealous and not give me certain advice!" John retorted frustratedly.

The other smiled slightly.

"It's because I love you that I'm trying to help you" he said.

John nodded, trying to get rid of the confusion in his head.

"Can I stay here for another couple of hours?" he asked.

-As far as I'm concerned, you can move here if it will make your life easier-said Jack getting up from the couch and taking his laptop from the desk not far away.

John leaned against the back of the armchair and closed his eyes.

He wasn't ready to go home yet.

________________________________________

The sound of the downstairs door heralded John's return.

Four hours had passed since his return to Baker Street and naively, Sherlock had hoped to find the doctor at home, waiting for his return ready to talk about what had happened, but had to think again at the sight of the empty apartment.

Listening to the sound of footsteps on the ladder, Sherlock realized that John was in a bad mood.

He settled in his own armchair, aware that by opening the front door, his person would be the first thing John would see and wait.

Moments later, the door opened, and their gaze met, allowing Sherlock to infer what the other had done in those hours.

A glance at John's clothes confirmed John's encounter with reporters, a small stain on his right cuff and the slight smell of alcohol told him about the beers the man had been drinking in the time away from home( _four_) and the wrinkled and disgruntled expression, told him about what was stirring inside John and the feelings he felt towards him.

There was also a smell, spicier than the cologne that John used habitually, and that Sherlock had only heard on another occasion that told him who John had spent those hours with.

-Ah... You're here - said the doctor, abandoning the cane by the door and moving toward the kitchen.

"Obviously” the detective simple answered, trying to bring his attention back to the roommate, despite the thousand questions that crowded into his mind looking for answers about John's clothes and person.

Entering the kitchen, John fill the kettle and remained silent for a few moments, his shoulders turned to the living room, as if he wanted to forget Sherlock’s presence in the apartment.

"You should have warned me" he said, without turning around.

"Why?” asked Sherlock, trying not to look bored.

John turned slightly towards him, an incredulous expression on his face.

-I would have known how to behave, instead of being suddenly assaulted by journalists.

Do you know there's a group besieged outside? - John asked him trying to control his frustration.

The other shrugged.

"They're going to get tired soon" he said.

-What am I supposed to do in the meantime? Lock myself in the flat and pretend everything's okay? -

-Of course not! It would seem that we have something to hide.

We simply must continue our lives-answered Sherlock, trying in spite of himself to find a solution.

It was obvious that John was angry, his body radiated aggression and frustration, and Sherlock wondered what to do or say to avoid the quarrel that would otherwise ensue.

-I don’t want to be followed wherever I go! I already undertook this farce three years ago and I do not want to repeat the experience.

Talk to Mycroft, talk to the Prime Minister himself, but see if you can work this out-

“What do you expect me to do?" asked Sherlock, an eyebrow arched to the other's words.

"I don't know!" said John, raising his voice slightly.

\- If you want to enjoy the unconditional attention of the journalists, you're free to do it, but I'm out!

I had nothing to do with all of this and I would like not to be involved.'

Sherlock let the silence fall for a few moments, before settling his fingers under his chin.

-Don't you realize you can't stay out of it?

Despite your absence at the press conference, journalists were eager to know your reactions and what happened to you during these years.

They want to know your story... And I'd like to know it too" he added sincere, as few times in his life.

The thought of not knowing anything about John annoyed him; he was now convinced that there was something that he had not been told, that escaped his comprehension; the surveillance work done by Mycroft in those years had been clumsy and full of holes, completely below his capabilities so the only possible explanation was that something had to have happened during his absence and Mycroft had preferred to keep him in the dark.

"Well it's not their business how I've lived my life these years and it's definitely not yours!" said John, turning his gaze away to try to control the anger he felt mounting inside him.

If Sherlock wanted to be present in his life, he shouldn't have abandoned him like that!

"What about your Mondays?" asked Sherlock again.

When the doctor returned to look at the living room, Sherlock was standing leaning against the door jamb, a few steps from him, his arms clenched against his chest.

"What do my Mondays have to do with it now?" he asked.

"The last time you had to deal with journalists, you loudly proclaimed your heterosexuality” he said.

John approached him, stopping close enough to invade his personal space, and looked him in the eyes for a few moments.

"Sherlock, I think I'm old enough to decide for myself who to sleep with, without having to ask permission from you or the bloody journalists" he said, trying to control the annoyance that conversation caused him.

He then walked away again, continuing to prepare the tea, although both he and Sherlock knew it would be left on the kitchen counter if the situation worsened.

"Why don't you want to tell me what happened to you in the last three years?" Sherlock decided to ask.

The direct attack had always brought him results, and he was sure that in this case, it would certainly improve the situation between them.

-Before I left, you were always eager to tell me every little, useless thing about you, so why do you want to leave me out now?" he asked again.

He understood from the sudden change in John's posture that something had bothered him: was it something he had said?

The tone of his voice?

When John turned to meet his gaze again it was clear from the contracted muscles of the jaw that he was trying in every way to control himself.

-Because this is what friends do: they make you part of their lives, even for the stupidest and most insignificant things...

But I had forgotten that you have no friends-commented John before abandoning his cup of tea and passing next the detective to enter the living room.

Sherlock followed him, clearly annoyed by his last sentence and stopped him, grasping John’s left arm.

"Don't you dare!" he said with flaming eyes "I've spent three years of my life fighting to protect you, to keep Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade safe”

"You didn't do it for me!" exclaimed John, echoing his voice in the living room and probably also downstairs.

He freed his arm from the hold of the other man and responded to Sherlock's furious look, with equal fury.

-You can keep telling yourself this fairy tale if it helps you sleep at night, but we both know that the only reason you left was to prove once again that you were the best.

You and Moriarty are still competing, despite his death...

You went on to travel the world solving the biggest puzzle I'd ever seen without stopping for a moment to think of the poor idiots you had left behind...-he shouted at him.

Trying to calm down, he passed a hand through his short hair, before talking again.

\- You may have saved my life from a sniper, Sherlock but at the same time you pulled the trigger yourself.

Do you want the glory and recognition of the journalists?

Go ahead.

Have fun and take all the adoration of the press but keep me out of this hideous circus! - concluded with clenched teeth.

Sherlock remained silent, observing the man in front of him who once again, just under his gaze, had turned into something completely different, totally alien to the John he had known and loved for years.

What had happened to him in his absence to justify that total closure against him?

He had to gather as much information as possible, he had to shed light once again on the mystery that John Watson was.

Retreating from his thoughts, Sherlock nodded slightly.

"As you wish” he simply said.

John nodded briefly, before heading to his room, the tea bag still in the cup, completely forgotten on the kitchen floor.

____________________________

For two days 221B Baker Street rooms were dense with a tense atmosphere.

The developments made in recent weeks were undone by the constant presence of journalists, camped outside the door, and by John's total closure towards Sherlock: there were no more cups of tea strategically placed next to the sofa, the reassuring presence of the doctor in the drawing-room gone.

A stranger had occupied John Watson's post, increasing the number of unanswered questions in Sherlock's mind.

In those days, the detective had tormented Mycroft with phone calls, clamoring to know what had been hidden from him until now, but Mycroft had made himself unreachable.

The only positive thing in those days had been the arrival of old unsolved cases by Lestrade, who had saved him from boredom and a slow descent into madness.

There was another thing that had changed in those days: observing John's behavior in the brief moments when they were both in the same room, Sherlock had discovered that the doctor had rekindled a relationship with Jack, thanks to the almost constant presence of that spicy cologne on his clothes.

He was certain that the relationship between the two men had not reached a physical level, given the lack of signs or the smell of sex that John always carried with him after each sexual encounter, but that awareness did not seem to help him every time his look rested on the crumpled clothes and disheveled hair of the doctor, the result of some amorous meeting between the two men, causing him an incomprehensible anger in his stomach.

Trying to focus on his work, and avoid the hostile and empty apartment, Sherlock finds himself in Barts' lab, sitting in front of a microscope to examine some skin tissues for a case.

Molly was busy not far from him and perhaps it was the presence of the woman that led Sherlock to start the conversation, eager to find answers to those questions that had been haunting him for days.

"They got back together" he said suddenly.

Molly looked up from the folder she was examining and stared at the detective, still intent on studying the sample.

-Who? -

Sherlock rolled his eyes for the foolish question.

"John and that annoying fly!" he replied.

-You're talking about Jack, aren't you? - asked once again Molly.

"Of course!" snapped Sherlock, finally looking up at the woman.

\- Why him?

What does John find in that insignificant person?

No one knows him as well as I do, why John persists in these stupid relationships? - he said clearly confused and annoyed.

-Don’t be so harsh, Sherlock. Jack proved to be a good friend to John.

I'm sure there's an explanation for their romance-commented Molly.

-Well, it seems obvious to me why... John must be really sexually frustrated if he decided to go back with that man" he said, looking for a logical thread in his thoughts.

-Sherlock...- admonished him Molly, sounding almost like Mrs. Hudson.

-I'm pretty sure that if John was sexually frustrated, he wouldn't need these methods to... Maybe Jack's trying to help him in this situation with the reporters. -concluded the woman, changing the subject in half so as not to succumb to her own embarrassment.

-John goes to clubs every Monday! Doesn't he get enough help on those occasions? - blurted the detective.

"Sherlock, this is really a mean thing to say!" reproached him again Molly.

-You should know me by now! You know I'm not a nice person- he just said to her.

Molly smiled and shook her head.

-You know that's not true. You're just jealous" she added.

-Please don't start talking about feelings! If I wanted the feeling talk, I'd have stayed home and watched soap operas with Mrs. Hudson! - interrupted Sherlock, his own work completely abandoned on the table in front of him.

A strong expression appeared in Molly's eyes, leading her to stiffen her facial muscles in a serious pose.

"Actually, that's exactly what I'm going to do, and you're going to listen to me" she said firmly.

Sherlock turned to the woman and, after raising his eyes again to the sky, dedicated his attention to her.

"You came back with the certainty that you and John would take the necessary step to turn your friendship into something else...-began Molly.

-Why does everyone keep denying the evidence? John and I are just friends! - the detective interrupted her frustratedly.

"Shut up!" scolded Molly, before resuming the speech- You were aware, thanks to your huge brain, that it wouldn't be easy, but you were convinced that things would settle down once John got rid of his own anger...-

"Well I got punched, didn’t I?" the man commented.

"And did it help something?" asked Molly, already knowing the answer.

Sherlock snorted in frustration and shook his head.

-As I imagined. You know why?

Because of all the people who were close to you, John is the one who suffered most of all of us for your death...-Molly said letting the silence fall for a few moments, uncertain on what to say next.

-John is the proudest man I've ever known, he never talked about how he felt during your absence, and I'm sure you'd do the same in his place-she added, her voice slightly lower.

-I told him everything that happened during these three years, why doesn't he want to do me the same courtesy? I thought he understood the reasons that kept me away-asked Sherlock, again trying to find a logical meaning to that speech.

"Maybe, but that doesn't mean it hurts less" the woman said.

-So, I must be punished for the rest of my life? -

Molly sighed and shook her head.

-Oh Sherlock... Sometimes you really know how to be obtuse - she just said.

It was then that Sherlock carefully observed the woman and realized that Molly was also hiding something from him.

-There's something you are not telling me- he said with certainty.

Molly hinted at a slight smile.

"There are so many things you don't know" she said.

-What is it? What are you all hiding from me?

What happened in these three years that I don't know? -he incensed her.

-So many things... But it's not my job to tell you what happened- she answered.

"It up to John when it's time to tell you the truth" she added.

Sherlock stared at her a few moments before nodding, only to take the position that had always helped him reflect.

There was something about John's past that eluded him, something important, that had helped turn him into the inaccessible stranger.

Something Sherlock had to find out at any cost.

___________________________________

A distracted look at John's clothes brought Sherlock's full attention back to his roommate.

The best pair of jeans the man owned.

Black shirt covered with a sweater of the same color without sleeves.

A tie.

The wristwatch he had received as a gift from his father for his 21st birthday and which he wore only on a few special occasions.

Brown loafers that John used when he wanted to impress a woman on a first date (_was that rule still valid now that he was only interested in men?_).

Combined with the shaved cheeks and the almost impeccable way the doctor's blond hair was groomed, Sherlock slightly clenched his jaw.

John had a date.

Sherlock took a deep breath, trying not to think about the next obvious deduction: John had a date with his "boyfriend”.

Behind his narrow eyelids, listening to the man's movements around the living room, Sherlock was able to reproduce his every action: checking his appearance in the mirror above the fireplace, passing his hand over his jaws covered with blonde beard, the quick movement of the fingers in the hair (_soft and silky_) to try a different look at the last moment before deciding that he preferred the previous one, arrange the knot to the tie so that it was perfectly in the center (_old military habits_) and finally a hand on the sweater to cover the belt buckle.

The detective did not open his eyes even when John turned and laid his eyes on him, clearly undecided whether to say anything or leave in silence.

"I’m going out" John said, as he made his way to the peg near the door.

Sherlock felt a slight tremor in the fingers of his left hand, and remained silent, trying to block from his mind the images that John's appearance suggested, but to no avail.

What was so special about Jack to receive such treatment?

Why did John persist in surrounding himself with boring and useless people who had no other purpose in life than to keep him away from Sherlock?

“Why him?" he asked despite himself.

Every noise in the room suddenly ceased, projecting the image of John standing motionless by the door, his coat already on and his gaze fixed on him.

"Sorry, what?" asked John, unable to hide his surprise at that question.

At last, Sherlock opened his eyes and met John's gaze, trying to ignore the increase of his heartbeats at the sight of the man: in those clothes John was spectacular, even more handsome than in his own mental projection.

"You know I don't like to repeat myself" he said, trying to regain control over his own person.

John sneered.

"If I didn't know you, I'd think you're jealous" he said.

With a single elegant move, Sherlock stood, turning his back to John, as if he wanted to hide from the man.

-Jealous! What nonsense!

"Don't be ridiculous" he retorted.

In the room the silence fell for a few moments, until John let slip an ironic chuckle.

-You are.

You can't stand the idea that someone else is replacing you, that I might be interested in someone else" said John, unable to hide his disbelief.

With his body in the defensive posture he used with all the skeptics, Sherlock turned again and glanced at John.

-What nonsense!

I know you're not really a couple: there's nothing in your attitude, your movements or your mood that confirms a physical relationship between you two.

There is no post-sex smile that accompanies your every action after sexual intercourse, the muscles of your shoulders and back are still tense, obvious sign of frustration and sexual dissatisfaction, and above all there is no trace of Jack on your body- he listed quickly, before taking a long breath, without taking his eyes off John.

The man had listened to him in silence and thanks to the nervous pulsing of the vein on his neck, Sherlock knew he was right.

"No one knows you like I do John” Sherlock added.

John remained silent for a few seconds before stroking his beard, which covered his jaw.

"Not anymore Sherlock... - he murmured then escaping from the detective's gaze.

The next moment, he turned and opened the door, leaving him alone in the apartment.

__________________________________

_"All Souls Club. 141 Cleveland Street. Come and see with your own eyes."_

Sherlock had received the message twenty minutes after John's departure, while he was busy venting his frustration on the violin, tearing ungainly and horrible sounds from the instrument.

The message came from a number he did not know, and the address was unknown to him, except for his certainty that it was in Marylbone neighborhood.

If he had received a similar message three years ago, he would have immediately thought of a new challenge launched by Moriarty, but the death of the criminal consultant excluded, of course, that possibility.

Few people had his number which, contrary to his address, did not appear on his website "_The Science of Deduction_" so that message must have been sent by someone who knew him personally.

Moreover, everyone who knew him would never write “_come and see_", because everyone knew that he did not watch, but would carefully observe even the most insignificant thing.

Anthea? Impossible

The woman had always contacted him encrypted cell phones.

Also excluded was Lestrade, whose number was imprinted in his mind, and Mycroft, because a special ringtone was assigned to his number.

Without even realizing it, he found himself in the street, the Belstaff on and the blue scarf around his neck.

A cab stopped in front of him a few moments later and Sherlock, still halfway out, had already given the cabbie the address, getting lost in his own thoughts.

There was a hypothesis he hadn't considered: John had gone on a romantic date with his pesky fly, was it possible that it was Mr. Micheals who sent him that message?

John wasn't a careful person, so it would take a moment to steal the detective's number from John's cell phone and send that message.

Did Micheals wanted to make him realize that John had move on? To make him understand the attraction and complicity that the two men had?

-141 Cleveland St.-

The cabbie’s voice pulled him away from his thoughts, leading him to glance out the window, being for a moment flabbergasted by what he saw to his right.

"It's a church" he said.

The man nodded.

"Are you sure you took me to the right address?" asked Sherlock again.

-141 Cleveland St.

Just as you asked me- the cabbie merely said.

Although unconvinced by the accuracy of the address, Sherlock paid for the ride and got out of the cab that left immediately.

The Gothic church in front of him was in the dark, the gate closed by a heavy chain and a padlock that the detective could have opened without any problems.

Why was he here? Did he have to force the gate and get inside?

His hand was already in the right pocket of the Belstaff, where he kept the case with the tools needed to break through a door, while checking that the church was empty, when a voice stopped him.

-I've wanted to meet you for a long time-

Sherlock turned to his right and found himself confronted by a man he did not know, but who was actually really familiar: he must have been in his sixties, gray hair whose tips caressed the base of his neck, green eyes with small flacks of brown, a broad nose and thin mouth.

Stepping forward, Sherlock gave the man a slight nod.

"It's nice to meet you, Mr. Watson” Sherlock said, taking his hand out of his pocket and carrying both of them behind his back.

A hinted smile gave rise to small dimples on the sides of the man's cheeks.

"My kids told me you were good, although Harriet used a language that was certainly more colorful-comment him in a calm voice.

-You sent me the text-

Hamish Watson nodded, then turned to the church.

"Let us hurry or we will miss the beginning" he said as he walked down the street that lined the right side of the church.

Trying to make order in his own thoughts, which were stirring nonstop in his brain, Sherlock followed the man for a dozen steps, stopping behind the church, in front of a wooden gate that allowed him to enter the garden of it.

A light came from a shed not far away, and in the distance, Sherlock heard voices.

Before entering the shed, Mr. Watson turned back to the detective.

-He better not knows you're here. He wouldn't be happy at all.

Hide in the back of the room as your brother always does- said the older man, turning his back to him again.

-Mycroft is here? -asked Sherlock feeling the anger mount towards the man; those words were confirmation that Mycroft and of course Lestrade had hidden something from him.

Mr. Watson shook his head.

-Not yet, but I'm sure he's will be when it's John's turn.

He always does...-

The next moment the man entered the shelter and Sherlock stood at the threshold to observe what he could of the hall: it was a parish theatre, with a stage in the background on which was placed a stand with a microphone; ten rows of ten chairs were arranged neatly in the hall and fifty chairs were occupied.

In the crowd, Sherlock swiftly recognized the annoying fly, but was surprised to find Lestrade, Molly, Sarah, Sally, and even Mrs. Hudson in the front rows, sitting next to Harriet and Mr. Watson.

A presence appeared behind him, and without turning around, Sherlock realized that Mycroft was there, finally understanding the reason for his presence in front of that door.

"Why didn't you tell me? “he asked furiously but keeping his voice low so as not to be discovered.

-John wouldn't want to, and Gregory forbade me to talk to you about it after you came back.

Let's go.

It’s John’s turn- Mycroft said entering the hall and settling down, blending in perfectly with the environment.

Sherlock entered the hall and stood motionless by the door, his gaze fixed toward the stage, where John was approaching the stand.

The elegant clothes that a few hours ago in Sherlock's eyes had been the preparations for a romantic date, now took on a totally different meaning: they demonstrated the strength and courage of that enormous enigma that in his eyes was John Watson.

Hands on both sides of the stand, John looked down at the small crowd and smiled.

-Hello, everybody. My name is John and I'm a drug addict-said with the voice that Sherlock always identified as "Captain Watson".

"Hello John" the group gathered at the foot of the stage replied in chorus.

"Today is two years since I last took drugs" John said.

To those words, a warm applause rose from the group of people sitting in the front rows representing John's family, leading the doctor to smile again, despite the nervousness that radiated from his posture.

John waited for the silence to descend into the hall to speak again.

-The first rule of these meetings is confidentiality, we only know the names of our companions and their stories, but I know that you all have seen my face on the front pages of the newspapers in the last week-he said ironic getting a small laugh from the crowd.

-You all know why I became a drug addict.

Three years ago, I lost someone... A very important person to me.

With his death everything stopped making sense to me, the world went on and I could not understand how it was possible, because my life stopped the moment when... when he had disappeared-.

A knot had tightened Sherlock's throat listening to those words, his eyes fixed on the stage where his doctor was putting his heart on display.

-The first time I took some sedatives was after I got back from the hospital... According to the doctors, I needed to sleep, and the pills would "help" me recover from what had happened to me.

And in a way the pills were useful...-he said in such a low voice that it was heard only thanks to the microphone.

-It started like this: a pill was enough to fall asleep and find myself in a world where I was once again useful and "indispensable" as only he was able to make me feel.

The reality around me scared me and was hostile, so why not create a better reality, tailor-made for me?

After all, there could be nothing wrong with those sedatives if the doctors prescribed them to me... I know, on second thought, it sounds really idiotic now, but it made really sense at the time.

-The sedatives worked for a few months, until my dreams were corrupted by the same reality that I was trying to shun: every time I closed my eyes, I always saw the same scene, the same nightmare, from which I could not escape.

That's why I started to take amphetamines.

Everyone told me that I had to take back my life, that I could not go on like that, and the amphetamines seemed to work: they kept me alert and focused, leaving me awake even for days, but each time the need for "normality" became too strong and I returned to using sedatives- narrated John.

How could John mess with his life like that? He was a doctor, for pity's sake!

Unaware of the tremor that had taken hold of his body, a hand clasped spasmodically around the door jamb, Sherlock kept his gaze fixed on John, eager to know and at the same time frightened by what the man would tell.

"In a year I lied, betrayed the trust of the people closest to me, I stole...-he said, stopping a moment overwhelmed by feelings- But in my mind, everything was justified by the sense of emptiness that was devouring me and from which I did not have the strength to free myself.

Until one day I decided it was time to stop with the pills.

In a moment of clarity, or madness, I flushed all the pills in the toilet... And then I climbed on the roof of my apartment- added John.

At those words Sherlock opened his eyes wide, his breath stuck in his lungs.

John remained silent for a few moments, shaking his head.

-I was in total paranoia, convinced that that was the most logical solution, the only way out... I guess I even thought I'd do my friends a favor, that I would free them from a burden, but I had forgotten how stubborn they could be- he said with a small smile.

-I was there, sitting on the ledge, with my legs dangling in the void and here comes my personal guardian angel to sit next to me and talk until he can make me change my mind... Being rescued by the British government and his trusty right-hand man is something that happens once every two hundred years, like Halley's comet- he joked.

Sherlock looked in the direction he knew he would find Mycroft and met his gaze, finding him as always emotionless.

-It's been two years since that day.

I started to follow these meetings and I took back my life and although it was not easy, every time I was about to relapse, I wondered what the idiot with the Belstaff at the back of the room would say.

Given his experience with drugs, he would never forgive me, probably he would have criticized me for the pathetic and boring substance that had caused my addiction.

Sedatives... Boring, John! - the doctor said, mimicking his friend's deep baritone, snatching a little smile from the crowd.

Sherlock felt the gaze of the entire room fixed on himself but ignored it completely in favor of the green eyes that despite the distance had met his own.

That look lasted only a few moments, before John again caught the attention of the crowd.

-Before leaving the stand to someone else, I would like to thank my family once again.

Thank you for always trusting me, for being by my side despite my anger outburst, my depression and my irksome drunkenness.

Thank you for helping me keep a roof over my head and forcing me to eat-said addressing the group of people in the second row, leading Mrs. Hudson and Sarah to wipe their eyes with a handkerchief- Without you I wouldn't be here- added John.

Accompanied by the applause of the crowd, John walked away from the stand and slowly descended the steps, returning to sit with the other members of his group.

__________________________________

The smoke of the cigarette mingled with the cold breath coming out of his lips.

As soon as John had left the stage, headed for the small group of friends and family, Sherlock had left the shed, unable to breathe and to stay an extra minute in the shack.

He had not gone far; he had made only a few steps, moving in an almost hunted way trying to put order in his confused thoughts, clutching between his trembling fingers one of the cigarettes he had made a habit of keeping in the inner pocket of his Belstaff in the past few years.

He had smoked the first cigarette quickly, consuming it in a few puffs, and had lit another with the butt still on, slightly annoyed at his inability to silence John's words that still resonated in his mind.

How could he have done such a thing?

Why had he toyed with his life like that?

All because of his fake suicide.

Why?

He wasn't worth that much... Not as much as John.

"You shouldn't smoke" said a voice behind him.

Taking a new puff only to contradict the man, Sherlock remained silent, not knowing how to behave in that situation: it was usually John who scolded him for doing something reckless or stupid, they had never found themselves with the roles reversed.

"What are you doing here Sherlock?" asked John, in a patient voice, but from whom he could see the vein of rage that flowed underneath.

The detective took the last puff from the cigarette and took another from his pocket.

-Sherlock…-admonished John more firmly.

-Why didn't you tell me? - asked the detective in a low voice.

"It wasn't about you" John said.

-You developed a drug addiction that could have killed you! Of course, it was about me! -said Sherlock, turning around and laying his flaming gaze on the doctor.

"I don't think so" John said, shaking his head slightly.

-How could you do that to me? -

John frowned: clearly, he did not expect that question.

"I’m sorry, what?" asked the doctor.

-How could you play with your life like that? Didn't you think of me?

What would I do if you were dead? -

John's face stiffened.

"You were dead, you bloody idiot!" he replied, venting the anger that animated him from the moment he saw Sherlock in the back of the room.

"You had no right!" continued Sherlock, stepping into the other man personal space, as if he wanted to put more emphasis on his words.

-I didn't have any rights? Fuck you, Sherlock! - shouted John, shoving the detective away from himself, knocking the cane to the ground.

John passed his hand through his short blond hair and remained a few seconds in silence, before raising an equally furious look at the detective.

-What did you expect me to do? That I forgot the two years we had lived together, everything we had gone through and moved on with my life?

You left me alone, Sherlock!

Do you have any idea what I had to put up with the journalists, the lies and my miserable life?

I had no purpose without you!" said John, trying to control his anger.

"Apparently you're even more stupid than I thought" said Sherlock, unable to accept those words.

John's face hardened more to those words, and for a moment Sherlock was certain that the other would strike him. again

-You really are an asshole.

I've always been by your side, whenever you needed me.

I was always there, even if to get your damn cell phone out of your pocket, and where were you when I needed you? -

Once again, the silence descended on the road, broken only by the chatter that came from the shed not far away.

-I needed you, but the only way to be with you again was in my dreams.

That's why I started taking those pills: one was enough, and everything made sense, you were with me again and I stopped being the pathetic person I had become.

You have no idea...-John said interrupting the sentence in half and looking away from the detective for a moment.

Sherlock watched his friend carefully, reading on his face the anger, pain, and shame that experience, and those words brought with him.

-I've been on the verge of killing myself several times, and every time in a different way: shooting myself, throwing myself off the roof, or an overdose.

It would have been easy...-said John with a shrug.

The detective swallowed several times trying to get rid of the knot that had tightened his throat.

John looked at him for a few seconds, stroking his beard, in a gesture Sherlock had now identified as a calming one, only to sigh.

"You were all I needed, and you left without even looking back” he said, staring into Sherlock's gray eyes.

Sherlock Holmes was an analytical man, always convinced that his intelligence was his greatest asset, resigned to a life of solitude with his Work.

But he hadn't come to terms with John Watson.

The little doctor had knocked down the wall he had built around him and earned an important spot in Sherlock's heart.

That heart the detective thought he didn't have, but that James Moriarty had spotted at first glance...

That avalanche of emotions he couldn't identify was about to suffocate him, but Sherlock was aware that letting John go without making him at least partly aware of those "feelings" would be the biggest mistake of his life.

John had turned his back on him, ready to return to the shack when Sherlock cancelled the distance between them and clasped both hands around the man's forearms, forcing him to turn around.

John met the other's gaze and Sherlock clearly saw the fight between confusion and anger, before the latter prevailed.

"Let me go" he said on that angry note that had accompanied their entire conversation.

In response Sherlock increased the squeeze.

-Sherlock…-John warned him.

"You were with me" said Sherlock, earning a confused look, which prompted the detective to continue.

-Every second of every day, you were with me... I couldn't get rid of your face.

You stopped me when I was in danger of becoming cruel, you saved all those criminals, because if it was up to me John, I would have killed them one by one just because they had driven me away from you.

But I knew you wouldn't be happy, that you'd be disappointed if I let myself go to the darkest part of me-

Sherlock shut up for a few moments, still looking into the doctor's eyes, reading into them every emotion the man was feeling at the time: confusion? Worry?

Love?

Sherlock swallowed again, determined for once, to be completely sincere.

Although there was a high probability that it was his last chance.

-In these three years I have created many different scenarios... I pictured you married with kids, finally with your private clinic and a cottage outside London... Happy.

It was an image that hurt me, but I was convinced it was the right thing for you.

Unlike me, you deserve to be happy!

And if that means disappearing from your life, I'm willing to do it, despite my selfish nature that would like to spend every single moment with you.

Just say a word and you won't see me again-Sherlock added earnest.

John stared at him with an incredulous expression on his face, his breath held back and a new stiffness in his muscles.

The silence lasted for a few moments, but John had the absurd feeling that he had spent hours in that squeeze, before shaking himself and letting vent of the anger that still had not abandon him.

Letting a frustrated sound slip from his open lips, John grabbed the detective by the lapel of his coat and in a quick and unexpected move, turned the detective and slammed him violently against the church wall.

A broken breath came out of Sherlock's lips at the impact, and the next moment John was in his personal space, so close that he felt the firmness of Sherlock’s muscles against his body and his warm breathing against his face.

“You stupid idiot! How can I be happy without you?" asked John.

Sherlock observed the contours of that familiar face, for the first time so close that he could smell mint and coffee in John's breath, his hands clenched in the black sweater that little could against the cold.

His gray eyes met John's green ones, and the next moment reality seemed to move at triple speed.

Without noticing, a hand moved upwards, resting on the back of John's neck to bring him closer to Sherlock and close the slightest distance between their faces, thus bringing their lips together.

The first thought that crossed the detective's mind was how soft were John's lips, the perfect combination of his own lower lip and John's upper lip; the second was John's fingers, still clenched around the lapel of his coat that pulled him against his body, instead of pushing him away.

Their lips touched several times, in a power play that saw Sherlock lose and that forced him to open his lips and let John's tongue creep inside, not before a bite was left on his lower lip.

John's right hand got lost in Sherlock's soft hair, slipping through his locks, ruffling them only because he had dreamed of doing it so many times and now, he had a chance to satisfy that desire.

Sherlock's hands slipped on John's solid chest and tightened around the man's waist, thus nullifying any distance between their bodies, while their lips were still engaged in a frantic dance: lips, teeth and tongues, every means was acceptable to discover every little secret of the other man.

It was the lack of oxygen that forced them to separate, making their eyes meet; all the contrasting emotions that had animated John up to that moment had disappeared, giving way to a unique and powerful emotion: desire.

-John- whispered Sherlock not knowing what to say next.

"Shut up Sherlock!" murmured John in response, bringing his face closer to him and kissing Sherlock again.

A satisfied moan reached Sherlock's ears, but the detective could not determine which of them was responsible; John's hand had sunk into his hair causing a chill that run down his entire back and concentrated in his groin, where a rapidly developing erection led him to move his hips against John's, in search of the right friction, smiling in the man's kiss when he felt John's erection against his thigh.

His analytical mind scolded him for that inappropriate behavior, so far removed from his usual attitude, and the sound of a car in the distance reminded him that they were in the street, against the wall of a church nonetheless, but as much as the idea shocked Sherlock, he could not find within himself the motivation to break away from John.

It was then that he felt the presence of a stranger a few steps away, followed a few moments later by a slight cough to announce his presence: Lestrade.

John's muscles stiffened, and the next moment his face moved away from Sherlock's, lowering his head to recover the demeanor needed to confront the intruder.

The two men turned to the inspector, whose face was alighted with a satisfied smile, his arms fastened to his chest.

-I was sent to check that you two didn't kill each other. But apparently, we were wrong…

Do you want me to come back later? - he asked ironically, unable to hide his amused smile.

"Shut up Greg" said John, now free from Sherlock's reassuring embrace, staring at his friend, before taking the few steps to get closer to the inspector and overtake him to get back into the shed, followed a few moments by Greg.

Sherlock watched him go away and, unconsciously, passed his tongue over his lower lip on which there was still some trace of the doctor's taste, and then fastened the Belstaff to shelter from the cold that had caught him the moment the embrace had ended and to hide the erection that didn’t seems to go down.

He lit a cigarette, trying to make order in his thoughts, and it was then that he saw it: abandoned on the ground a few steps from himself, lay John's cane.

Sherlock picked it up and allowed himself a smile, unable to free himself from the feeling that things would soon return to normal.

A new normal that Sherlock was eager to discover.

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**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone! Probably some of you noticed some similarites with another Johnlocked Fan Fanction and you were right.  
The idea of an addicted( or fomer addicted) John was born after reading "One day at the time: no way back" by KeelieThompson1.
> 
> Also I leave you the photo that ispired John look for the evening:  
http://userserve-ak.last.fm/serve/500/77147084/Martin+Freeman+0039qayh.jpg


	6. Dance the night away

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> -Have you ever seen him dance? -

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Songs in this chapter:  
1) "I wanna dance with somebody" by W. Houston  
2) "So emotional" by W. Houston  
3) "I know it's over" by The Smiths  
4) "True Love" by Pink  
5) "Sexual healing" by Marvin Gaye
> 
> References to "Life of Brian" by Monty Phyton

The noise of the blaring basses shook the walls of the room violently.

Sherlock looked around in the flood of sweaty and half naked bodies surrounding him and tried to find a good vantage point that would allow him to keep an eye on both the dance floor and the entrance to the club.

He had no idea what had driven him there, on a Monday night, when he could devote himself to his own experiments without John's constant meddling, but he was convinced that this was the place he was supposed to be.

The fault was certainly of his curiosity, of his insatiable need to know, even if this time he had gone beyond scientific knowledge, beyond the desire to excel in his field.

But if he was honest with himself, Sherlock knew that what brought him there was those stupid conversations and teases of which he had been subjected over the last few days.

"_Have_ _you ever seen him dance?_ "

With an imperceptible nod and an indecipherable expression on his face, he distanced himself from the unwanted, and remarkably annoying attention of a man in his thirties whose only garment of clothing was a pair of black skinny jeans.

Sherlock played for a few seconds with the glass of whiskey he had in his hand and wondered for the umpteenth time how much longer he would have to wait and what the hell was he thinking when he had let himself be persuaded to be there that evening.

He knew John, he was his roommate, his best friend, and none of those man in the club knew him better than he did.

He was absolutely sure of that.

However, he could not deny that there was a substantial part of John's life that he completely ignored.

He could have done research, asked for the club’s cameras tapes to Mycroft to observe John's behaviour during his "alternative Mondays", but he knew from the outset that it would not be enough.

He needed to see with his own eyes, to experience on his own skin the difference between the man he knew, and the one unknown to him.

Sherlock brought his attention to the dancefloor and it was then that he realized that he had been lost in his Mind Palace for too long, when raising his eyes, he found himself not even twenty meters away from John, accompanied by Jack and Lestrade.

John’s blue eyes were staring at him, devoid of the anger and frustration he would have expected in a similar situation, but laden with a feeling that increasingly animated the doctor's gaze in recent weeks.

Desire.

Without dissolving their stare, Sherlock drank the rest of the whiskey, swallowing slowly and observing the blush spreading over John's cheeks.

Hinting a small smile, Sherlock raised the empty glass in his friend's direction in the mock toast and watched him for a few more second, until John let his gaze down, turning his back on him towards the bar.

Let the game begin....

**FORTY-EIGHT HOURS EARLIER**

The new normal sucked!

This was the first thought that crossed Sherlock's mind when the first sound his ears heard on a damp April morning was a song blaring in the apartment.

He rubbed his eyes while lying in bed for a few moments, trying to recognize the music, but he had to admit with himself that pop music was not within his areas of interest.

Someone hummed softly with the music, and for a moment Sherlock was tempted by the image of John Watson preparing breakfast in the kitchen in boxer and dressing gown, smiling happily.

At the singer's umpteenth high-pitched, Sherlock sighed and sat down.

They absolutely had to have a talk about music and especially about the concept of "good music".

He walked to the door of his room and managed to catch an amused laugh that was definitely John, which led him to smile again before turning the door handle and then suddenly stop himself on the doorstep for the scene that was presented before his eyes.

As he had imagined, John was in the kitchen wearing his dressing gown and boxers, an amused smile on his lips, but not alone: with one arm fastened around the doctor's hips, a wooden spoon in his other hand, and wearing only a pair of tight black boxers, there was Jack Micheals.

The scene that until a few moments before had led him to smile now caused a fire that corroded the walls of his stomach.

When had the other man arrived?

Considering the clothing, he must have spent the night in the apartment, but when Sherlock had returned from one of his stake-out, he had found no trace of the man’s presence, there had been no suspicious noise...

Undisturbed, he glanced at the hanger by the door and noticed the man's black coat, how had he not noticed it last night?

Still, he was certain that John had finally got rid of him after...

Sherlock shook his head, mentally scolding himself for what turned out to be an erroneous deduction: it was evident that what had happened between them had not had the same meaning for John as he did for him.

After all, it was just a kiss... A fantastic, erotic kiss full of promises, but evidently, he was the only one who thought it that way.

John's laugh made him return to reality, and Sherlock again looked back at the pair: John's hips moved in time to music against Michaels’ who held him against his front, with one arm around his waist.

“_Oh! Wanna dance with somebody_  
I wanna feel the heat with somebody  
Yeah! _Wanna dance with somebody_  
_ With somebody who loves me_ “

Sherlock stepped away from the door and moved to the kitchen with his head held high and his back straight, to prove to the couple that their intimacy left him completely indifferent.

As soon as his eyes recorded the movement, John broke away from Jack and tried to recompose, closing his dressing gown at the waist.

-Good morning Sherlock- John greeted him after clearing his throat.

Sherlock responded with a grunt and took his own cup from the sink to pour himself a generous quantity of tea.

-Hey Sherlock, do you want to have breakfast with us? -asked Jack as he approached the stove to retrieve a plate full of pancakes.

The detective dropped himself on the chair next to the table, completely ignoring the man.

John stared at him for a few moments before nodding in his place, then retrieved his cup and taking a sip.

Ten days had passed since that kiss.

Neither of them had addressed the subject, almost certainly to avoid the embarrassment that would ensue, continuing their lives as usual, but without the heavy atmosphere that had been felt in the apartment since the detective's return.

Jack set up the pancakes in the middle of the table and then headed to the bathroom a few steps from the kitchen, leaving the two men alone, the silence interrupted only by the music that kept playing from the stereo.

Trying to overcome the embarrassment, John laid down an empty plate in front of the detective and took the tea cup well aware that the detective was totally unable to prepare a decent tea, so he threw the drink into the sink and filled the cup again adding two teaspoons of sugar, leaving it next to Sherlock.

The moment the detective took the mug to his mouth, brought a smile on the doctor's lips, which John tried to hide behind his own cup, falling into the chair in front of the black-haired man.

“_I remember the way that we touched I wish I didn't like it so much_  
I get so emotional, baby  
Every time I think of you  
I get so emotional, baby  
Ain't it shocking what love can do “

Committed to filling Sherlock's plate with a small portion of pancakes, without realizing it, John began humming the song, dropping his eyes on the detective's long, elegant hands when he put the plate in front of him, trying to to remove from his mind the memory of how those hands had grasped him, hold him tight to his chest, of the delicate caress of those fingers in his hair.

When he raised his head, he noticed that Sherlock's gaze was fixed on him, and for a long moment he let himself be caught by the man's gray eyes, before quickly turning away, embarrassed at being caught in the act.

-Jam or syrup? -John asked him the slightly hoarse voice.

-Syrup-replied Sherlock after a few moments of silence.

John rose again, heading for the fridge, his back turned to the detective.

The next moment a new song rang out in the kitchen and almost at the same time, John felt Sherlock's presence behind him; he closed the fridge door and turned slowly and found himself stuck between the detective and the kitchen cabinet.

Sherlock had no idea what had driven him to get up and take the few steps that separated him from John, he was only aware of the tension that prevented him from standing still in the same place for more than a few seconds, that desire to be next to John , invade his personal space now that he had the chance, to be sure that the man would not vanish before his eyes suddenly.

Leaving him alone again.

It was strange how he could not accept the concept of loneliness after spending much of his life in a voluntary isolation, to avoid the pain and misunderstandings that human relations carry behind.

Despite what John or Mycroft thought of him, Sherlock was anything but a novice in matters of the heart: he had had his experiences during college, Victor was an obvious example, and even during his years as a drug addict, there had been men and women, willing to exchange a dose for some particular favors.

And then there was Irene.

The only human being to interest him for more than an hour besides John; a companion and fighter with whom he had been able to fight on equal terms, allowing himself to be tempted by her intelligence and fascinated by her recklessness in the face of danger.

But no one, neither Victor nor Irene had left a hole inside him at the time of their departure... Not like John did.

Why did the idea of parting with John Watson now seem inconceivable to him?

Why did Sherlock Holmes, the self-proclaimed sociopath, who had never needed anyone even in the darkest and most desperate moments of his life, find himself unable to let go of the wonderful and simple man in front of him?

Why was the idea of John leaving him to have a life with Micheals so unbearable to him?

“_I know it's over  
And it never really began  
But in my heart it was so real_”

"John..."said Sherlock in a low voice, finding himself speechless, unable to give voice to the turmoil that was stirring within himself.

The doctor arched his eyebrows, scrutinizing his friend's face, trying to figure out what upset him and unconsciously raised a hand and moved some disheveled curls from his forehead, then letting his fingers slide along his prominent cheekbone.

John scolded himself for the image that his brain instantly sent back to him, reminding him of the feeling he had tried caressing those cheekbones, yielding to a repressed desire for too long, the sense of protection and security he had felt when those strong arms had hugged him... giving him the feeling that there was no other place in the world where he should be.

The certainty of being home.

Sherlock let a sigh slip at that unexpected gesture of affection, so typically John, who had to resist with all his might the desire to let go and take possession of the man's lips again, to make sure that their taste, their softness had not changed in those days.

John smiled, and glanced at the detective's full and perfect lips, as if he had read his thoughts in that one breath, moving closer to his face and laying his forehead against Sherlock's, decreasing the distance between them more.

"It's all right" he murmured, looking for the right words to free Sherlock from his disquiet, letting his hand slip through the detective's rebellious hair.

-I shouldn’t…-

Before he could continue, the bathroom door opened and Jack entered the kitchen again, sitting on one of the stools without giving the couple more than one look.

-Keep going. Don't mind me" he said, then placing a generous portion of pancakes in the dish.

Letting go of a frustrated sigh, Sherlock walked away from John and returned to sit in his seat, the bottle of maple syrup clenched between the fingers of his left hand.

John stroked his beard on his jaw and aware that it would be useless to scold Jack, he moved to the kitchen to resume his breakfast.

In the kitchen for a few minutes only the sound of forks against the plate was heard, dampened by the music still coming out of the stereo speakers.

-So…-John said, turning a little towards Jack. "You want to tell me why you showed up here at two o'clock at night?" he asked.

A cunning smile was painted on Jack's lips, leading the other to raise his eyes to heaven.

-Ok out with it... What’s his name? -

Jack let go of a slight laugh before meeting his friend's gaze.

-Harry-said Jack.

-What an unusual name! - commented ironically John.

The other looked at him with an arched eyebrow, concentrating in that one gesture all his sarcasm.

-Look who's talking.

However, he is American, he was accompanying a politician visiting Downing Street, and since it was the first time he was in London, he needed a guide- recounted Jack.

"I guess you've illustrated the beauties of our city in great detail" said John, a wry smile printed on his face.

-That's right.

I was a very good cicerone! I also managed to get the London Eye open after closing time just for us.

Don't look at me like that! I can be romantic I want to, it's not my fault that you weren't impressed with it" he exclaimed as an answer to John's incredulous gaze.

-As much as I love London at night, I don't think I would have fallen into your bed with such a trick-commented John.

Launching a sneaky glance at Sherlock, to understand how uncomfortable that conversation made him, John managed to catch the last hints of the stealthy smile had drawn on the man's full lips.

-Luckily few men consider a crime scene and a chase through the streets of London romantic – teased back Jack before taking a bite of his pancakes, thus allowing the words to hover in the room yet a few more Instant.

The doctor took a sip from his own cup, casting a glance at Sherlock who, after those words, had clearly tensed his back.

John couldn't help but wonder what Sherlock would do to win over a man or a woman: the detective was certainly not the type to bring chocolates and flowers but John was convinced that with a physique like Sherlock, with a sharp and lightning-fast intelligence like his, the man had never had any problems with his admirers.

He probably had to snap his fingers to make his admirers drop at his feet.

Annoyed by that idea and trying not to listen to the little voice in his head that pointed out that the man had never snapped his fingers towards him, he turned to Jack.

-Okay, but that doesn't explain why you showed up here late at night... Shouldn't you be with Prince Harry? he asked his friend, deliberately mocking him.

A shocked fake expression was painted on Jack's face.

-You know me! I would never sleep with someone on the first date-answer Jack, an expression so innocent on his face that it made John laugh loudly.

"That's not what I remember” said John, a voice high enough to hear over the sound of music.

The tension in Sherlock's muscles increased, causing him to regret the last comment, but a slight annoyance caused by his previous thoughts did not leave him, almost feeling justified for those words that had clearly hurt the detective.

Instantly recomposing his armor, Sherlock erased any trace of disturbance from his face, and with a fluid and elegant move he stood up, leaving his plate half full on the table, moving toward the living room.

John looked back at Jack, who, unaware of what had happened between the two men, had continued to talk to him about his new flame.

"Listening to you, it looks like you found your soul mate... -commented the doctor- Too bad that he lives on the other side of the pond" he pointed out the next moment.

Jack shrugged.

"We live in the social media era, now it's easy to keep a long-distance relationship" said.

John sighed.

-Aren't you going too fast?

Relationships are already difficult when you are in the same city, sometimes in the same house, without unnecessary distances...-said John, rational as always-Wouldn't it be more logical to live this experience as a beautiful adventure but without expecting too much from the future? -

Jack raised an eyebrow at those words.

-John Watson what happened to your romantic heart? To your adventurous spirit? -asked Jack.

John sighed, glanced at the motionless figure turned towards the window, the violin's bow clenched between his fingers, wondering how it was possible to feel so close to a person, to the point that he was sure to know his thoughts and emotions and find themselves the next moment in front of a huge abyss that saw them on opposite sides.

More distant than ever.

Before he could find a suitable answer, which would not show the turmoil of the feelings that stirred in him and was at the same time sarcastic, two repeated blows announced the presence of Mrs. Hudson outside the door.

Tightening his robe around his body, John walked to the entrance and smiled at the elderly woman, who in return put a slight kiss on his cheek.

"I apologize for the hour boys...-began Mrs. Hudson- Sherlock darling, is not appropriate looking out the window in your dressing gown" she said an instant later, fondly scolding the detective.

Sherlock, in response, merely shrugged his shoulders and moved towards the sofa, letting himself fall gracefully on it.

-Good morning, Mrs. H, do you want a cup of tea? - Jack greeted her amiably.

-Oh, Jack, you're here too. A tea would be welcome, thank you-added Mrs. Hudson moving around the kitchen, casting a quick glance at John and Sherlock.

-How are you this morning Mrs. Hudson? Do you need anything? - asked John.

The woman shook her head, and the next moment she held out a note that she had pulled out of her blouse pocket.

-It's addressed to you John.

I thought I'd take it to you in person, instead of waiting for you to come down to check your mail... Such a small ticket can be easily missed- she added.

John read the few scribbled words on the dirty sheet of paper and nodded overthought.

-You did the right thing, Mrs. Hudson-

The doctor glanced at the watch on his right wrist and quickly calculated what he should carry with him before meeting Sherlock's gaze which, clearly, had not strayed from him from the moment Mrs. Hudson had given him the small piece of paper.

John reciprocated that look for a few moments, before giving him a small light smile, for once in possession of a secret that Sherlock had not been able to deduce.

-Would you like to go with me? - John asked him.

The detective sat up, clearly surprised.

-We must go out in ten minutes; you think you can do it? - he added.

-I'm not the one who spends hours in front of the closet looking for the beigest sweater - Sherlock teased him.

"No, you're the one who spends hours in front of the mirror, so that every curl is perfectly tidy and at the same time messy" John answered back, happy to see a contraction at the corner of the detective's mouth, the closest thing to a smile the man would allowed himself in the presence of Jack and Mrs. Hudson.

Without saying anything else, Sherlock placed the violin in its case again and walked to his room, blocked by John's voice.

-It could be dangerous-

This time Sherlock abandoned any pretenses and that smile that was reserved exclusively for John and that every time caused a chill down the man’s back, appeared on the beautiful face of the detective, before it reassembled in its usual mask.

-Eight minutes John! –

_______________________________

As expected, eight minutes later they were on the street and, for once, it was Sherlock who had to follow John's quick and safe footsteps, among the inevitable weekend tourists and couples with children who, despite the cold day, had decided for a family outing.

Thanks to his photographic knowledge of the streets of London, Sherlock was able to understand almost immediately where they were headed, and he had confirmation of it when John turned into Thornton Street and moments later in Salisbury Place.

They had walked halfway through Salisbury Place when John looked around and, the next moment, confidently walked to a semi-abandoned building, with half the windows nailed by wooden planks and the other half without glass.

John knocked three times in quick succession on the blue door and after a two-second interval, knocked two more times, then waited.

The next moment the door opened, leaving Sherlock stunned: on the threshold was one of the homeless who was part of his network of informants.

-Hello Doc! - he said, greeting John and stepping aside to let them in.

-Hey Boss, how's it going? -asked John kindly, a slight smile on his lips- Look who I brought with me-said again John, moving slight his head in Sherlock’s direction.

The homeless man, closer to fifty than forty, tall with hair that had once been red, but which were now so tangled and dirty that it would have been difficult to recognize its natural color, green eyes, an acrylic suit in bright colors and brown loafers battered and so ruined that it would make Mycroft cringe, stared at him for a few seconds before his face clouded.

"He can't come in" he said.

John frowned, clearly surprised, and even Sherlock wanted to let go of an expression of astonishment, but he kept the mask of indifference that ruled his own face.

Being rejected by one of his informants wasn't something that happened to him every day.

Sherlock looked at John and noticed that the man's face had returned serene, followed by a slight nod.

Could it be that John understood what generated that acrimony before him?

-I guarantee for him Boss... You trust me, right? - He added the next moment.

Boss and John stared for a few moments before the homeless man approached them to close the door, taking a sneaky look at the street to check that no one had noticed their movements.

"This way" he said, driving them down a long corridor.

-I'm sorry I didn't come as usual last week, but it was a crazy week.

Do you think you can spread the word for next week? - John said to the man.

Boss nodded.

-Always on the same day? - he asked.

"It would be perfect" John said.

-See if you can bring even the beautiful doctor... It's always a pleasure to see you Doc, but you know… Looks count-commented Boss.

A full and sincere laugh rumbled through the empty rooms, leading John to lower his head, as if he were ashamed of his own laughter.

"I'll see what I can do” John simply said.

With a frowned forehead, too many questions that crowded his mind, aware that the doctor was making small talk to calm the atmosphere and, at the same time, aware that after the mere exchange of jokes Boss had begun to ignore him, Sherlock continued to observe the interaction between the two men and wonder how long they had known each other, how long John had started to provide medical care to his network of informants and why he had never known anything about it.

Could it be that Mycroft's information and surveillance network had reached such a low level? Or was it another piece of information that his dear brother had decided to keep from him?

John and Boss were engaged in conversation until they finally stopped at a door and, in an Indian row, one after the other, entered a room that had once clearly been an office.

Sitting on the ground, her legs covered in a dirty, torn blanket was a girl Sherlock had never seen before in all the years of his acquaintance with the homeless in London: she was not even twenty years old, long black hair greasy and dull half-back length, an emaciated and sharp face, from which bulged the round nose and thin mouth.

She must have been a beautiful girl before she became homeless, Sherlock thought, observing the happy smile that sprang up on the girl's face at John appearance.

"Hey Baby Girl" the doctor greeted her affectionately, slowly lowering himself next to the girl.

-Hey Doc! I heard my baby- she said happy to him.

Sherlock looked down at the girl's belly and noticed a slight bulge, hidden by the blankets.

John smiled again.

-Is that so?

Could you describe to me what you heard?

Was it a kick or a quick movement in your belly? - John asked her in a professional tone, but with his warm, affable voice.

The girl seemed to think about a few moments, a hand abandoned protectively around her belly.

-It was a quick move.

I tried to make Boss feel it too, but he's a man" said the girl, rolling her eyes.

John smiled again, turning to the man to ask for confirmation.

-I tried to hold my hand up there for a few minutes, but nothing happened, are you sure you didn't imagine it? - Boss retorted to Baby Girl.

-Do you really think I'd imagine my baby? -snapped the girl back.

-It is normal, at first, that only the mother can notice the movements of the fetus.

Boss will have to wait another month before seeing and hear him kicking-explained John trying to avoid a quarrel between the two.

Baby Girl smiled again, happy to be able to enjoy those little displays of affection exclusively for a few more weeks before having to share them with the rest of the world.

-Are you taking your vitamins, Baby Girl? - John asked again.

It was clear from the girl's expression what the answer was.

-Doc…-

-Baby Girl, we've already made this conversation: if you want your baby to be healthy and strong, you must take vitamins.

I don't want anything to happen to you or the baby" John explained.

-But with those pills, I can make good exchanges. Look at this blanket!

Isn't that adorable? It's perfect for when the baby arrives...-.

John sighed and hold the girl's hand between both of his.

-Baby Girl, I know you're doing everything you can to make sure the baby has the best once he’s born.

What your child needs, right now, is that you help him grow healthy and to do this you have to take your vitamins every day.

It's a risk for me to give you these pills every month too, but I do it without the slightest doubt or second thoughts because I know they will help you and the baby feel good.

You promise me you're going to take your pills? Or do I have to hand the bottle over to Boss and let him give it to you every day? - John asked her again.

"I can look after myself Doc... “she replied with a slight irritation in her voice.

John nodded.

-Then prove it to me.

I'll be back next week, and I'll see right away if you've broken your promise-

Baby Girl nodded slowly before looking down, embarrassed.

-Well, now what do you say we go ahead with the visit? - John asked.

With quick gestures, John pulled a portable pressure-measuring device, a stethoscope and a light out of his jacket's pockets, leading Sherlock to wonder how he didn't notice anything outside from normal in the doctor's appearance... as usual, John had managed to amaze him.

-Has there been anything unsual in the last few weeks? - asked John professionally, pointing the light into the girl's right and then left eye.

It was clear that Baby Girl didn't know for sure what John was talking about, so the man came to her help.

-Did you have cramps or blood loss? -

"It is difficult to distinguish hunger cramps from those that could be caused by the baby" the girl said.

John stared at her for a few moments and then smiled at her sweetly, quickly stroking her cheek.

"Okay, I need to control your blood pressure, so I need silence for a few moments.”

The doctor wrapped the sleeve around the girl's arm and turned on the machine that would control both the pressure and the heartbeats.

Sherlock realized that there was something that did not convince John by his expression.

-Something wrong? - he asked.

-Heart beats.

There's a slight arrhythmia... Baby Girl did you have short breath or felt tired? -he asked and went back to look at the girl.

The girl nodded.

"A couple of times, but I thought it was because of the pregnancy" she confessed.

-A few days ago, she almost fainted... If I hadn't been there, she would have fallen to the ground passed out- meddled Boss.

"You should have called me" John said, looking at the man.

-To tell you what? We hadn't eaten in two days, and I linked fainting to hunger-

John nodded slowly as he looked at the girl, although it was clear to the detective that he was still worried.

-How about we check our champ? - he asked her with a smile.

Baby Girl nodded quickly, slightly discarding the blanket to show the tiny bulge that Sherlock estimated with a four-month-old fetus.

With an expected hands John moved on her belly, checking that there were no sore or too tender areas and then nodded satisfied.

He then took the stethoscope and moved it for a few moments to find the spot where the baby was placed, a smile framing his face.

-Is everything okay? -asked fearful Baby Girl.

John took the earbuds off his ears and passed them on to the girl, allowing her to hear her baby's heartbeat, causing tears to spring up at the corners of her eyes.

"He's a little fighter- commented John looking first at Boss then Sherlock with a smile.

Boss smiled and nodded, silencing with that gesture all the fears that had accompanied the medical examination.

Baby Girl listened for a few moments to the baby's heartbeat and then gave the earbuds to John who fixed the stethoscope back in his pocket, then stood up.

"As far as I'm concerned, the baby is healthy, but you know perfectly well that I would feel more confident if I could do an ultrasound" John told Boss.

The man lowered his head, looking at the tip of the loafers for a few moments, and then shook his head slowly.

-You know it's risky.

Given our conditions, it takes a moment for Social Services to find us- said Boss.

-We could do it after closing time: it’d be just Sarah and me and you wouldn't have anything to worry about" John said.

-It would still be a risk- repeated the homeless man.

-Boss…-

-We could ask Mycroft... - intruded the detective.

-No-answered promptly John, launching a quick glance at the detective.

There was a moment of tense silence, in which a myriad of considerations crossed John's face, until the doctor sighed.

-I could get an ultrasound machine so we'd take the exam at our house.

It's just us and our landlady.

We would avoid Social Services and I can make sure everything is fine- he proposed and then turn to Sherlock once again- Would that be a problem for you? - John asked him.

The detective shrugged, granting his permission.

-Okay. If you can really get the machine, then you can do the exam-granted Boss.

John sighed satisfied and nodded.

"Well, then I'll let you know as soon as possible if there's anything new" John said before turning to Baby Girl- In the meantime you'll take your medication and at the first cramp or symptom that something's wrong, you'll send me to call.

Are we clear? -he added with his "Captain Watson" voice.

Baby Girl nodded.

Sherlock and John stayed for a few more minutes to agree on John’s visit with the other homeless people and then greeted the couple and headed home.

___________________________

-I enjoyed watching you working-

They had been home for a few hours, staying quiet for the short haul that would take them back to Baker Street and, once safe in the quietness of their apartment, they had resumed their routine of experiments and teacups.

As usual, John had sat in his own chair and spent the rest of the afternoon immersed in the thriller paperback of the week, interrupting himself only to turn on the light placed next to Sherlock's chair as the evening progressed.

-Would you like Chinese? -John then asked him, getting up and heading towards the kitchen.

Sherlock looked up from the microscope and stared at him for a few seconds.

-Thai-the consultant answered back.

John nodded and picked up the detective's phone to call the restaurant and placed the order.

It was only when the dinner was over that the atmosphere changed: usually Sherlock consumed the few bites that consisted of his dinner in front of the microscope, busy taking notes, while John settled on the sofa in front of the TV.

This time, however, Sherlock had decided to abandon his experiment and settle down next to John, on the other side of the sofa, while the doctor was focused on a movie on tv about a man mistaken for Jesus, making him laugh and sneer every two minutes.

After finishing his dinner, Sherlock lay down on the couch, placing his long legs on John's belly, as he had so often done in the past, watching the film without really seeing it, immersed in his own thoughts.

There was a strange tension in Sherlock's muscles that John perceived clearly, leading him to believe that at any moment the detective would jump to his feet with his usual repressed energy and start walking back and forth through the living room.

For his part, Sherlock was tormented.

He felt the unreasonable need to be as close as possible to John but, contrary to that morning when his body was governed by desire and the attraction he felt for John, now all he really needed was to be as close as he could be to the one person who, despite the problems, quarrels and misunderstandings, always remained by his side.

The only person who accepted him for what he really was.

A few minutes later, with a frustrated sigh, the detective sat down and returned to lie down again, this time with his head resting on John's legs, where moments before were his feet.

Much better.

For a few moments John stiffened, surprised by Sherlock's unexpected move, but relaxed again when he heard the happy sigh that ran to Sherlock's lips, once he had settled comfortably against him, his long legs folded on the sofa, an unexpected smile to curve his lips.

Almost without realizing it, John raised his hand and dropped it into his friend's rebellious hair, letting his fingers slip through the soft curls, following an instinct he had suppressed many times, as if it were a common gesture between them and not the impulse of a moment.

Sherlock's sentence struck him, leading him to raise an eyebrow.

"You always watch me while I’m work" he pointed out.

"Corpses don't count" Sherlock said.

John found himself, despite himself, agreeing with the man and nodded.

-You're right-

-I always get the soldier and the blogger charm... I'd never seen you in all your appeal as a doctor-comment Sherlock happy to hear John giggle for his words-You're really caring with that girl...-he added.

"Someone has to be" said John, trying not to focus too much on the first part of the talk.

Was Sherlock attracted to his military nature?

He knew he was sexy when he wore "Captain Watson" skin, it was thanks to his confident and affable attitudes that he had earned his nickname in the Army but to know that even Sherlock, so impenetrable, was impressed with it, embarrassed him for some strange reason, and led him to wonder what would have happened if he had exploited that information.

For a few moments the two remained silent, their gaze fixed on the television, but no longer following the film.

Sherlock dropped a hand on John's legs, caressing his right knee slightly, suddenly aware that that unexpected intimacy was not enough; another reassurance that John was indeed there with him on a Saturday night, and not with Micheals or one of his fleeting conquests.

The reassurance that despite everything, John would always put their friendship, or what was born out of their friendship, above all else.

Is that what a person in love feels?

-What's her story? -he asked him certain that John would immediately understand who he was referring to, so as not to leave time for his brain to process more of that unexpected and weird thought.

-Her real name is Victoria.

Before she became homeless, she was one of those high society girls who have no other aspirations than to marry a pompous and boring idiot of their own social class-started John.

-The young version of Mycroft...-comment sarcastic Sherlock.

"Indeed" said the other man, a smile in his voice.

-But it didn't go that way.

It's the classic story: a girl falls in love with a boy of a lower class, sleeps with him believing that from that moment they will live the most beautiful story after Romeo and Juliet...-.

-Until she becomes pregnant and he disappears, leaving her in trouble with the family-continued Sherlock in his place.

Typical. Trivial. Another proof that feelings were a waste of time and a hassle.

The silence he received in response was enough confirmation of his deduction.

-To prevent the family from implementing the plan to have an abortion, she left home and started living on the street.

The first few days were rough then luckily, she met Boss who took her under his own wing and hasn't lost sight of her since- narrated John.

-Is there a problem with the baby? - Sherlock asked after a few minutes of silence.

John sighed, trying to get rid of the tension that had accumulated on the muscles of his shoulders and neck.

-Only from your observations, how many months do you think Baby Girl is pregnant? - he asked him.

Sherlock reflected for a few moments and then sighed.

-Given the shape and size of the belly I would say four months-

-Six months- John corrected him.

\- That's why I'm worried: ever since Boss contacted me to take care of her, I've never been able to convince them to come to the clinic for a more thorough examination, for her fear of being seen by someone she knew before , or the possibility of Social Services locking her up in some care centre and then taking away her baby immediately after birth.

It's not my medical field, but so far, I've managed to get away with it thanks to my memories and notes from University and the internship...

All I can do is check her and her baby's blood pressure, as I did today, but with a closer examination I would be able to act on time in case there's some problem-concluded John.

-Mycroft could help us- mumbled Sherlock, making his friend smile again.

-I know how much you hate asking your brother for favors.

Besides, I think I am as fearful as Boss now... The only thing that has helped Baby Girl in recent months has been the baby, if anything happened and of asking Mycroft’s help, we would get the attention of Social Services, I don't think I could forgive him or myself-confessed John.

The film was now coming to an end with the protagonist now on the cross losing his chance to save himself because of a condemned man more cunning and quicker than him.

-When did you decide to take care of my network of informants? - asked Sherlock again.

He had so many questions about John's life during those three years he was away: starting with Mycroft's worthless collaboration, he had collected pieces of history wherever possible, beginning with Molly and ending with Mrs. Hudson, though the elderly woman didn't love particularly remembering what had happened and some pieces had returned to their place after the evening at the support group.

But there was still so much that John was hiding from him, that Sherlock would do anything to find out the truth.

The detective's attention returned to John when he felt the deep breath above him.

"Someone had to take care of them since their benefactor had disappeared" John said.

Sherlock remained silent, torn between having new information and asking him the next question; fortunately, John made the decision for him.

-I started a year ago... I wouldn't have been of any help during my addiction.

At first, they were very reluctant, some barely remembered me, but it was enough to make your name and they calmed down.

Over time, more and more people began to trust and let me take care of them.

I think a lot of them have also grown fond of me" he added.

-Is that why Boss wasn't excited to see me? Sherlock asked.

-Mh? - John simply answered.

-They saw with their own eyes how hard it was for you to overcome my... my disappearance and being, as you rightly said, close to you, now they see me as the villain of the story-said Sherlock, trying to drive out from his mind the memory of the last time he had heard that phrase and especially by whom.

-I think you're right, but maybe my involvement is only marginal: to learn that you were still alive and that only a select few of them knew about it, must have seemed a low blow-

Sherlock remained silent for a few moments, pushing almost unconsciously against John's hand still placed in his hair, for it to resume the caresses.

-Why the music? -he asked again after a few moments, trying to control a pleased groan at the effect that John's nimble fingers in his hair provoked.

The doctor remained silent for a few moments, clearly to gather ideas, before speaking again.

-During your absence, when you were thinking about Baker Street, what immediately came back to mind? - John asked him.

_You. Always you._

-The hideous wallpaper, Mrs. Hudson's cookies, the skull on the fireplace... - he readily listed.

A slight chuckle over him made him smile: why did John smile filled him with contentment?

-Your steps on the stairs... The endless cups of tea... Your sweaters that are as much part of you as the Glock or your first aid kit- continued Sherlock.

An embarrassed silence spread in the living room for a few moments, leading Sherlock to wonder if he had gone too far, but once again he was saved by John.

-For me, it was the noise.

Let's face it, without you, this house was a dead house.

No noisy steps on the stairs, no slammed doors, no explosions or gunshots against the wall.

No music at two o'clock at night...-

"So, the music helped you cover the silence" said the other, wondering why it had been so difficult for him to understand.

-I've always been a music lover but thanks to your impromptu concerts I never missed it...-

-If you miss my explosive experiments, I can get to work even now- joked the other one with a slight smile on his lips.

"I don't know how happy Mrs. Hudson would be" said John.

The credits were flowing on the screen, at any moment John would turn off the television and announce that it was time to go to bed, thus forcing Sherlock to move away.

-If there had been anyone in my life, if I had been married... Would you be back anyway? -

The question took him by surprise and for a few moments he remained silent, considering what to say.

Would he really come back?

So many times, imagining his return, Sherlock had to deal with that possibility; he had long considered the options, wondering what he would find on his return, considering also the possibility that during his absence John had found someone else.

Someone with whom realize his dream of a companion for life and children.

-You know me better than anyone.

You know I can be possessive, jealous, and self-centered. There were times when, imagining what I would find on my return, I told myself that nothing would change: we would always be John and Sherlock, Watson and Holmes-answered the detective cautiously.

-The other times? - John urged him.

Despite not wanting to interrupt that intimacy that had been created, Sherlock sat down, needing to observe John's face and his reactions.

-I told you that night. You just needed to say a word and I would have disappeared.

Perhaps for the first time, I would have been able to put someone else's interest first- confessed honestly Sherlock.

John swallowed visibly, impressed by those words, finding himself the next moment fighting the desire to annul the distance between them, to make that small gesture that would take them into Sherlock’s personal space, to turn those fantasies that from days crowded his mind real.

"It’s getting late" he heard himself saying, before interrupting the game of glances that bound him to the detective.

Sherlock merely nodded, thus freeing him from the task of finding an explanation for his absurd behavior and stood up, approaching the stand next to the window.

John turned off the television and, after making sure his legs had stopped shaking, he stood up and, for once heedless of the empty cups on the coffee table, walked to the stairs that would lead him to his room.

-Goodnight Sherlock- he greeted him, and then turned his back on him.

In response came the melodious sound of the violin that, as so many times in the past, would have been his lullaby.

__________________________________

For the second time in a few days, an unknown number sent a text to Sherlock Holmes' cell phone.

After a night of sleeping, Sherlock was awakened by the sound of a text on his mobile phone; and it was that text that brought him there, sitting at a Speedy's coffee table with a cup of black coffee in front of him, his gaze fixed on the front door.

Fifteen minutes later, his guest entered the bar, glanced at him, and approached the counter to make his own order.

Moments later, ready to go to work after their meeting, Jack sat in front of him.

"Thank you for accepting my invite, I wasn't sure you'd show up" he said, breaking his silence.

Sherlock remained silent, peering intently and gathering as much information as possible about the man.

Despite that scrutiny, a question was still constant in his mind: what was so interesting about that clearly boring man?

Jack took a sip from his cup (_cappuccino, two teaspoons of sugar),_ then looked at the detective.

-I think it's better for John if we try to get along, instead of avoiding each other every time we're in the same room.

We're both important in John's life…-

"You're not going to compare your friendship with John to MY relationship with John, I hope" Sherlock warned him in a serious voice.

Jack stared at him for a few moments, clearly surprised by the interruption and possessive tone that had transpired from the man's voice.

It was the same that transpired, sometimes, in John's voice, thought Jack letting go of an ironic smile.

-They told me you were a tough, argumentative guy.

At least I didn't pretend to be dead for three years-commented unable to keep that remark to myself.

Sherlock stared at him for a few seconds, clearly pissed for the man's words, deciding that he had wasted too much time being kind to Michael.

It was time to go on the attack.

-So, Jack Micheals... What's so interesting about you to grant you John's friendship?

36 years old, two brothers, a boy and a girl, clearly younger than you.

Wealthy family, private schools, a large group of friends and girls.

Why women when you were aware of your homosexual tendencies since you were a boy?

Because of your parents of course: you were the eldest son ergo all the expectations fell on you.

Studied at Cambridge and graduated in Economics before being dragged into the dirty work that has always been Politics.

-Arrived in London, you came out, with various homosexual experiences, but an alcoholic night with Miss Morstan resulted in Emma, scaring you to death initially, but then when it became clear that Miss Morstan would keep the baby, you said yourself that it could be the only chance to have children, not to mention that Emma would silence your parents' complaints about your life choices and your friends- Sherlock quickly deduced.

Satisfied with the man's disbelieving look, he took a sip from his own cup before staring again at Jack's face.

-But, I still don't understand how you became friends with John-concluded.

Jack shrugged, trying to recover from the shock of seeing his life exposed in a matter of seconds.

"Maybe I'm a good shag" he said.

Sherlock tilted his head to the right, clearly unconvinced.

-I doubt it.

Did I forget something? - he asked sincerely curious.

The man shook his head.

-No, you didn’t. But I'm eager to punch you- commented Jack.

Sherlock sneered, shrugging his shoulders.

"Get in line" he said, taking a long sip of coffee.

-How did you met him? -asked him incapable of postponing further.

Jack remained silent, considering how to start the talk and what words to use: it was clear that the detective wanted as much information as possible, but at the same time Jack felt a duty to protect John's privacy.

He was certain that, despite the complicated relationship between the two men, if John wanted to make Sherlock part of his new lifestyle, he would already do so.

-A man with a cane and a shaking leg, who forgets the cane as soon as he puts his feet on the dance floor, is not something you see every day.

The first time I saw him, he was with Greg, I offered him a drink and we danced together for a while.

That night I went home alone...- he started.

"Wrong" Sherlock interrupted him.

Jack stared at him, surprised at the interruption.

-You think you don't remember what John said yesterday morning? - Sherlock pointed it out to Jack.

The man shook his head.

-That doesn't count.

I didn't know him; I didn't even know his name! I knew he was good in bed and he was kind of untouchable, but only because of the gossips in the club.

Anyway, that night I went outside to smoke a cigarette, and when I got back inside, he was with someone else, busy checking the man’s tonsils with his tongue-

A warmth invaded Sherlock's face, leading him to untie the first button of his coat and giving rise to an amused smile on Jack's face.

-Did I embarrass you? - he teased him.

The detective gave him a hard look, trying to hide his embarrassment inside his usual mask of indifference.

It was a stupid reaction, he was perfectly aware of it, but the image of John making out with a stranger had appeared in his mind, distracting him.

Ever since he had seen John with Sarah, he had always tried to split John Watson his friend and blogger from John "Three Continents" Watson, a charming man who needed just a few jokes and a smile to bring his conquest to bed.

-Continue-

Jack sighed.

-Okay… We met again a month later, we introduced ourselves and at the end of the evening we slept together- concluded Jack.

Sherlock nodded briefly.

-Did you go to Baker Street? - he asked.

Since returning to London, Sherlock had never seen the doctor in the company of his conquests, but he had always believed that John had avoided having him meet them to prevent embarrassment.

-As far as I know, none of the guys he's been with in these years have ever been to Baker Street... And it doesn't surprise me in the slightest" said Jack, again taking a drink from his cup.

Sherlock arched an eyebrow asking him a silent question.

-I mean... Have you seen your apartment? - Jack asked.

-What's wrong about our house? -

The man stared at him for a few moments, again that wry smile to stretch out his lips.

-Nothing, now that you're back in the world of the living.

It used to be a private museum in memory of Sherlock Holmes, with most of your personal items on display.

Might as well put a ticket booth at the entrance-commented Jack sarcastically.

Sherlock rolled his eyes, plainly annoyed.

There was nothing wrong with their apartment in Baker Street; he was aware that the number of his properties was greater than John's, but from the beginning Sherlock had found nothing strange: a man accustomed to military life like John tends to minimize the number of objects to take with him.

"So, you became friends," he said, urging him to move on.

Jack nodded.

-It wasn't easy.

John was a loner, the only people "authorized" to be close to him were Greg and Mrs. Hudson.

All the others were kept at a distance, despite the encouraging smiles and friendly attitude... There was a limit that John never exceeded and that prevented him from creating any connection with the men he met at the club-

Jack suddenly interrupted, taking a sip from his own cup, clearly unsure of how to continue the talk, then choosing the path of sincerity.

-At the time, John was using amphetamines... he had sudden mood swings: one moment he was the soul of the party and the next he was holed up in a corner staring at the wall in front of him.

He was distant, lost in his own thoughts, but I always thought there was a completely different man behind the barrier, so I kept trying until I got results.

Don't get me wrong there were also times when I was to throw in the towel, convinced that maybe I was wrong, that the John Watson that presented itself to my eyes was all that was to be discovered, that I had created a fantasy about a man who did not even exist, but every time Mrs. Hudson or Greg urged me to go on, not to abandon him-

Sherlock nodded slowly, cataloguing the new information.

-How long have you been together? - he asked again, though the idea annoyed him.

Jack smiled sadly and for the first time Sherlock found himself thinking of the many sad smiles that had disfigured John's face during their friendship.

At the time he had misclassified them as signs of disapproval, of reproach, without ever seeing them for what they really were: the desire for something you know will never be yours.

"I was with him, but John wasn't with me" he said, leading Sherlock to stare intently at him.

-Don't get me wrong. He never betrayed me or anything like that, he's too noble for that, but that relationship was just routine for him.

Do every time what is expected of you, not because you want it but not upset your partner.

At the time of our relationship he was in rehab and I think he needed someone by his side to help him on that path, step by step... that made him understand the importance of that program, but even then there was always a limit... - said Jack again.

\- For God's sake, John Watson is the most transparent person I've ever known in my life!

You only have to look him in the face to understand what he's feeling - scolded Sherlock.

Unexpectedly Jack scoffed.

\- He must have practiced a lot during your partnership, because you never understood his true feelings in 18 months.

Anyway, as I told you, even during rehab, he never let go.

I was the one who forced him to eat, to sleep, to help him overcome his nightmares, who slept with him and who sometimes went to clubs with him, but he was always careful not to show too much or expose too much of himself.

Only after meeting Emma did he slowly let go and allow me to know the real John Watson: the one who loves children, who spends Saturday nights at home watching "Doctor Who," the funny guy you're proud to be friends with.

By then we had already realized that our story had no reason to continue, so we decided to be friends-concluded Jack.

Sherlock stared at him for a few seconds, cataloguing the information he found written on the man's face.

-Is there anything else? - he asked.

Jack sighed.

-What do you want me to say? That we still have sex sometimes when we both feel lonely?

Guilty.

You probably won't find a single man who wouldn't do the same in my place... Except Greg, of course, but I think it's because of your brother rather than a lack of interest.

Who has the chance to have a Holmes all to himself does not let it get away...-he commented, arching an eyebrow in an ironic way.

Sherlock shuddered at the ill-concealed subtext that the reference to Mycroft brought with him.

-But now that you're back, I'm finally going to be replaced.

As it should be- said Jack.

Sherlock rolled his eyes again, fighting between the urge of getting up and leaving the man without another word or the desire to ask him a few more questions.

Jack decided per him.

-Have you ever seen him dance? - he asked him.

Sherlock shook his head.

-You should... When John is on the dancefloor, it's pure electricity-

"That's how he finds company every Monday" said Sherlock, trying to imagine the good doctor on the dancefloor, but he couldn't.

-That too... But mostly because he's charming, fun, and an amazing shag.

It's the experience you remember for the rest of your life... Especially since he never goes with the same person twice-

-Apart from you; you are the exception to the rule- retort Sherlock with an acid tone.

Jack smiled, clearly satisfied, before shrugging his shoulders.

-I told you, I must have some aces up my sleeves.

Most of the time he just stayed by the bar, chatting with me or Greg and drinking his beer.

It's the men who approach him... He just chooses according to his fancy and most of the time, his choice falls on a pale lanky man with curly black hair-said Jack, staring carefully at the consultant to make him understand the true meaning of his words.

\- There’s been guys who have gone on a diet and dyed their hair to impress him-

Sherlock remained silent, fiddling with the plastic cup in front of him, reliving in his memory every single moment of the eighteen months spent with John, looking for that detail that had clearly eluded him, that half-word, that missed gesture that would change the course of their friendship.

He didn't have to search for long...

_"Do you have a girlfriend?_

_It's not really my area._

_A boyfriend then? Which wouldn't be a problem._

_I know that it wouldn’t be a problem!_

_John, despite being flattered, I want you to know that I consider myself married to my work."_

There it is.

The exact moment he slammed the door in the face to any possible romantic involvement between him and John.

But how could he know?

How could he have foreseen then that John Watson, a doctor, a soldier miraculously survived a shoulder injury in the afghan desert, with his sweaters and his cups of tea, his reproaches and exclamations of wonder, would become the only person in the world without whom he felt incomplete.

He, Sherlock Holmes, who had learned since childhood not to need anyone, not even his own family, felt lost without an ordinary middle-aged man.

-So, I wonder- Jack's voice brought him back to reality - Why look for replacements when he can have the original? -

"Ours is not that kind of relationship" Sherlock replied instantly.

**And whose is to blame, Sherlock? **asked a voice in his head dreadfully like Mycroft’s.

-So, you can undress each other with your eyes every other day, but you're going to keep pretending to be friends? – Jack asked with sarcasm in his voice.

-We don't pretend. John is my best friend-beat back Sherlock at the insinuation., staring at him with flaming eyes.

**Your only friend, right?**

-Did you ever think that maybe you could be more than just friends? -

-It's ridiculous- said promptly Sherlock.

Why did he keep rejecting that idea so categorically?

What would have been so wrong?

It was now clear that his feelings for John had crossed the line of friendship, that he would do anything to prevent the man from going to clubs in search of the next shag.

-Why don't you come with us on Monday? - Jack tenaciously carried on and proposed to him.

The detective merely frowned, watching the man stand up and fasten the buttons of his jacket.

-If seeing John with someone else other than me or Greg, a real rival, doesn't bother you, I promise I won't say another word on the subject anymore and let you live your friendship as you wish- said Jack, sticking both hands in the pockets of your jacket.

-And what if I do? - asked Sherlock out of pure spirit of contradiction.

The man shrugged.

-Who knows? Maybe you'll find the courage that both of you lack to take the next step.

Think about it-concluded Jack with a smile.

He then waved to him before turning his back and heading for the exit, leaving the detective with plenty of ideas for reflection.

**PRESENT**

"Pride" was the IT gay club in SoHo right now.

Or at least that was what he had read on the website.

That afternoon Jack had sent him another text confirming that they would go to that club that night, in case Sherlock had changed his mind.

The detective had spent most of Sunday lying on the couch, curled up in his fetal position, thinking.

Thinking about the months spent with John before The Fall, the weeks since his return, the slow improvement of their relationship, the strange feelings he had the first time he saw John's smile again that day on the subway train.

He had thought carefully about the chasm that had opened within himself when he discovered John's drug-addicted past, his suicide attempts, and the real possibility of not finding him upon his return.

He had relived their first kiss...

The feeling of finally being in the right place, at the right time with the one person with whom he could have indulged in that intimacy without fear of being mocked, of being hurt or betrayed.

Despite everything, John would have protected him, even if it meant protecting Sherlock from himself.

Finally, he reflected on his long conversation with Jack, concluding that he needed to know he needed more information.

That's why he was there.

When John went out that night, Sherlock had ignored him, diving into the music of his own violin, despite feeling the doctor's gaze on himself like a sniper rifle: he was aware that it wouldn’t take much, just a slight nod from John and Sherlock would blow all his plans.

One look and John wouldn't step out of their apartment...

So, he had let him go and kept playing until the noise of the door had come up to him from the lower floor over the sound of the music.

The next moment he had removed the bow from the strings, carefully placed the instrument in the case and headed to his room, leaving fifteen minutes later wearing black shoes, black trousers that highlighted his narrow hips and the purple shirt that had always been one of John's favorites.

A quick cab ride had taken him to SoHo, and once in the club it was enough to look around for a few moments to know that John had not arrived yet: knowing Lestrade they had stopped to drink a pint at the pub, to get rid of the stress of a work day at the Yard.

The room consisted of two dancefloors, one central, the second in the side area.

A corner bar was set in the center, reachable so from both sides and slightly elevated compared to the platform were the DJ station was.

There was also a shadowy area, composed of various corridors where surely, with the passage of hours would move much of the action, but for the moment it was still empty and "immaculate".

After leaving his coat to the wardrobe, Sherlock headed to the bar in slow strides, feeling the gaze of most of the men present on his body, instantly cataloguing them in his memory as "irrelevant."

John had arrived while the detective was finishing his second whiskey.

Recalling what Jack had told him only the day before, Sherlock decided to stay on the sidelines for the moment, but did not lose sight of the group: he observed the incredulous expression that took hold of Greg's face when he saw him there, and the satisfied smile who instead curved Jack's lips, but above all stored in his memory the redness that spread instantly to John's face only to see him swallowing... Did he have a secret interest in his throat?

No.

It was clear that in that situation, John's mind had been filled with images (_or memories?_) that had little to do with whiskey.

And the most unexpected thing was that now those same images were in his mind and Sherlock was not at all opposed, indeed there was an unexpected feeling _(impatience? Expectation?)_ that he had felt few times in those kinds of situations.

As Jack had told him the day before, many of the boys approached John and offered to pay him a drink, and the man had a smile and a kind word for everyone.

It was obvious, however, that he was not comfortable, that he was not completely relaxed and even Anderson would understand that the nervousness was due to the presence of the detective in what John considered his "_safe space_", the only place free from the presence of Sherlock Holmes.

A pop song rang out from the amplifiers, leading the crowd of men on the dancefloors to utter shrill cries that prompted the detective to roll his eyes, before catching the amused smile on the doctor's lips.

Will he have to wait any longer?

Waiting meant increasing the possibility that someone would approach John, get his attention just enough for the doctor to invite him to dance...

But would John really ask a stranger to dance instead of him?

“_Sometimes I hate every single stupid word you say_  
Sometimes I wanna slap you in your whole face  
There's no one quite like you  
_ You push all my buttons down_  
_ I know life would suck without you_  
  
At the same time, I wanna hug you  
_ I wanna wrap my hands around your neck_  
_ You're an asshole but I love you_  
And you make me so mad I ask myself  
Why I'm still here, or where could I go  
You're the only love I've ever known  
But I hate you  
I really hate you, so much  
_ I think it must be_  
  
True love true love  
  
Listening to the words of the song, Sherlock met John ‘stare.

For the first time someone had put into words those feelings that for Sherlock were so difficult to understand, to identify; feelings that the detective did not believe he possessed until ten days earlier he had found himself in the arms of "his" doctor.

In thirty-eight years, Sherlock had been afraid of losing only two people: his mother who, despite the pressures and his many mistakes, had never abandoned him and John Watson.

_John_.

How could such a small and common name hide such an important and vital person?

As if he heard a siren call, the doctor broke off from the bar and moved into the crowd coming towards Sherlock, stopping at close range, turning to him with a smile that was reserved only for the detective.

-Do you wanna dance? -John asked him, his lips close to his right ear to outdo the chaos of the music and the crowd.

With the corner of his eye Sherlock noticed the looks of perfect strangers fixed on them and, as was the case in the past, intent on staring at him but this time not with ill-concealed desire, but with obvious envy.

This was John's hunting territory, being even considered by John was for those guys an acknowledgment, something to brag about, and the mere fact that John had chosen Sherlock that night made him the object of their jealousy.

If only they knew...

The detective nodded and let John guide him on the dance floor as slow, sensual music spread from the loudspeakers at the end of the previous song.

John stopped in the middle of the dancefloor, well in sight, but at the same time hidden by the stares of others and for a few moments, it was clear in the tension of the shoulders and in the stiff back his embarrassment to be right there with Sherlock.

Usually the detective would take control of the situation, but he was aware that right now John was in charge and he could only follow him step by step.

It had been a few years since he had last danced, but they had always told him it was like riding a bike: impossible to forget.

Following the rhythm of the music, Sherlock began to move his hips, closing his eyes thus granting John a few moments of privacy and even the opportunity to sneak away in the crowd in case he suddenly changed his mind.

The next moment a strong arm tangled around Sherlock's waist and soon after John's compact body was against the black-haired man’s back, bringing their pelvis close and making them move together to the rhythm of the music.

_“I need some lovin'_  
And baby, I can't hold it much longer  
It's getting stronger and stronger

_And when I get that feeling_  
I want sexual healing  
Sexual healing, oh baby  
Makes me feel so fine”

Moving into John's embrace, Sherlock turned and moved around the blonde, settling behind him and placing both hands on John's hips, relaxing further as the blonde head settled on his right shoulder.

Letting himself be guided by the rhythm, Sherlock lowered his head and stroked the curve of his neck with the tip of his nose, breathing deeply the scent of sandalwood, oil and disinfectant that he had always connected to John, feeling a shiver running down John's back, followed the next moment by a strong callous hand that rose upwards to get lost in his black curls, sinking his hand as he had done the night before in a more private atmosphere.

Now that he had started to unleash his desires, a thousand ideas crowded into Sherlock's mind: should he caress John's chest or continue to tease his neck with his lips and teeth?

John saved him from the indecision and moved into his embrace to be face-to-face with the detective, a knowing smile on his lips, before approaching his ear again.

"Stop thinking idiot" he said, clearly amused.

Sherlock hinted a smile, lacing an arm around the man's waist, pulling John more against himself: he needed to feel John as close to him as possible, and John seemed to feel the same as he tied his arms around Sherlock’s neck, his chest against that of the black-haired man.

_Get up, get up, get up, get up, let's make love tonight_  
_ Wake up, wake up, wake up, wake up, 'cos you do it right_

Their glances met again with those words: was that the goal of the evening?

A quick shag and then back to their lives?

With the same question in their minds the two men stared, motionless on the dance floor, but still in each other's arms.

What did John want?

But above all, what did he want? Was he ready to leave behind a life of solitude, completely focused on his own work and his experiments to make room for another person?

**You already have.**

He had been doing this for 18 months before he disappeared... And it wasn't even hard.

Within twenty-four hours since they first met, John had carved out a place in his life, perfectly adapting to his work, his needs, his quirks and later even the severed parts in the fridge (_he had never prevented him from bringing them into the apartment, despite his reproaches and his outbursts_).

Was he ready to take the last step that would turn their friendship into a full-fledged romantic relationship?

Given the unexpected reactions he's been having in the last few days every time he thought of John, the response was positive.

He stared for a long moment into John's gaze before letting his eyes wander on the man's lips.

-John... -he started, not knowing how to continue.

Once again, the doctor took control of the situation; moving again in the embrace, he moved his lips to his left ear.

-What do you want Sherlock? - he asked him, tickling his neck with warm breath.

Sherlock moved his head slightly to meet John’s gaze that close, the doctor's fluffy hair stroking his cheek.

-Do you want a night of madness and then everything back to normal? Consultant detective and blogger as usual? -John asked him before stopping again to take a deep breath-I've known you for too long not to know that what I want from you is clear like a tattoo on your forehead, so it's up to you to decide.

What do you want? - he asked him for the last time.

For the umpteenth time, Sherlock found himself at a crossroads: a road would allow him to continue living his life as he had done up to that point, with the mere concession of a night of madness that he would remember for a lifetime, but which he would never talk about to avoid awkward moments for John.

Another path, however, would have shown him an unexplored world.

Similar in shape or color to the one in which he lived now, but with a fundamental change: someone who loved him unconditionally despite being perfectly aware of his many flaws.

Someone who above all was proud to let everyone know that Sherlock Holmes was His.

"No" he said at last, shaking his head slightly.

John nodded, while a saddened expression took hold of his face; it was evident that in a few moments he would move away from him, so Sherlock strengthened the squeeze around the John’s hips, and forced him to meet his gaze again.

-I want everything.

I want your hands stroking my hair while you're watching television, I want your mouth in so many ways that I don't even know where to start, I want people to see your smile but be the only one who knows what caused it.

I want to find you next to me in my bed every morning, even when I've been up all night staring at my periodic table, arguing with you about my diet, and I need you to be next to me to tell me when I'm misbehaving with clients or to point out that my deductions are brilliant- he said sincerely as he could be only with John.

The expression that was initially serious, prepared for the worst on John's face, had slowly turned into an incredulous expression as Sherlock went on.

Was that a good sign?

In doubt, Sherlock decided to continue.

-I want to spend my Saturday nights watching "Doctor Something" ... -

\- “Doctor Who”- John corrected him.

-It doesn't matter.

I want to run through the alleys of London to hunt down criminals with you and the next day I want to complain about the fictionalized style of your blog; I want to help you with the homeless, if you will let me, and when we are too old for the dangerous criminal life in London, I want to move to Surrey with you-concluded.

John arched an eyebrow.

-Why Surrey? - asked him curious.

Sherlock shrugged.

-It's the best place in England to look after bees and grow honey.

Besides, the Holmes have owned a house in that area for nearly 50 years.

I will produce the best honey of the last twenty years and you can finally write that book that you have been postponing for a long time...-said Sherlock without false modesty or doubts, as if he could see clearly in their future.

John smiled amused.

It was the second smile in a few minutes: it was certainly a good sign!

-When were you going to tell me, you planned our next 50 years? -asked John clearly pleased, as he began to move back in slow movements with the music.

Sherlock chuckled.

"I was sure you'd be able to keep up with the program" he said in return.

John laughed amused, only to become serious again the next moment, clearly considering the detective's words with a long thought.

**He's going to tell you that he needs to think, but you don't have to be upset about it.**

John would have had all the time in the world... He had stolen three years of his life, the only thing he could offer him was time.

John met his eyes again and returned to bring his lips back to his right ear.

-If you add a dog to the plan, I'm in-

If Sherlock had been struck by lightning at the same time, surely it would have surprised him less than those ten words.

Trying to get a hold of himself, not to let the incredulous expression that had surely appeared on his face shine through, the detective shrugged his shoulders.

"We can talk about it" he replied.

And there in that room, in the midst of a crowd of men engaged in dancing or exchanging foreplay, John gave him his special smile, the one that was only for him, before canceling the slightest distance between them by touching with the tip of his nose the clean-shaved cheek of the detective, his nose, to finally join their lips.

Sherlock went to meet his lips, touching them softly, sinking his fingers into the man's hair, biting John’s lower lip and then opening his lips to meet the other's tongue.

At that moment, Sherlock increased the hold around John's waist luring him, if possible, even further closer to his body, reinforcing with that gesture the need he had for John, his desire to prove to everyone in that place that John was His, that from that moment on there would be no more one night stands.

That their embrace was the beginning of something important and long lasting.

John and Sherlock.

  


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	7. Meet the parents

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> -If it was up to me, I'd ask him to marry me.  
Not now, of course, not with all the problems we have at the moment, but definitely in a couple of years I would try to put a ring on his finger.-  
-What's stopping you?-  
-He would never say yes-

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone! I want to say THANK YOU to all the readers that left kudos, read my FF and left a comment.  
You are the BEST! ^_^  
This story is complete; it's gonna be 14 chapters long and till now I have translated 10 chapters so I hope I can keep up the weekly updates.

The first thing he was conscious of was the sound of rain on the windowpanes.

On the thin line between sleep and wakefulness, John moved slowly into bed, decidedly softer and more comfortable than his own, becoming aware of himself and of the firm, warm body by his side.

Nothing different from the past weeks.

Tuesday morning, an unknown bed, a stranger body next to him, the imperative to leave the apartment without making noise to avoid unnecessary dramas and spare himself promises that, inevitably, he would not keep.

And yet, this time there was something different...

Letting slip a sigh through his open lips and, hoping to be in a favorable position to have a decent view of the room, John opened his eyes, looking at a wallpaper he had seen every day for the past four years and half and that damn framed periodic table.

Is it possible that it wasn't just a dream?

He remembered perfectly that he had arrived at "Pride" with Greg and Jack and was astounded to find Sherlock there, perfectly at ease in that place as in any other situation he had been involved in.

For a few seconds, he had wondered if he should not approach him and ask him to join them, but then he understood the real motives that had driven the detective there: as absurd as it seemed, Sherlock Holmes was there to woo him and would have followed his rules, also taking into account the possibility of John leaving with someone else.

As if that option were possible in the real world.

He had waited almost an hour, entertaining his friends, chatting with some of the boys who were attending the club he already knew and, as every Monday, approached him and offered to pay him a drink with the not so secret hope of getting his attention, but in the end John had moved away from the group and had approached the detective to invite him to dance with him.

And who would have guessed that a man so gangly would be able to dance like that?

The movement of his pelvis against his hips had made his legs shake like jelly a couple of times...

Okay, maybe the tremor was also because he was there on the dancefloor with Sherlock Holmes, the last person he would have believed interested in dance.

Interested in him...

Yet many things had changed in the last few days: since meeting Boss and Baby Girl, for some strange reason, Sherlock had become affectionate, and eager to show his feelings, his own need for love and also protection ( even though Sherlock would torn him to pieces with a few words just for thinking such a thing.)

Fully awake, John frowned, moving his head on the pillow to observe Sherlock's face, for once serene and fast asleep; he studied the shape of his face, the disheveled curls that fell on his forehead and on the pillowcase and his lips perfectly drawn, those lips that the night before had promised him a future together, before signing the agreement with a kiss.

A future that he had imagined so many times in those three years of solitude, always with a vein of sadness and regret, for that wasted opportunity, for the words he had not said and that he could no longer say, while yesterday that future was presented again to him, brighter and fuller of promises than before.

When they returned to Baker Street that evening, it had taken ten minutes to climb the seventeen steps that would lead them to their apartment: the kisses that had begun in the entrance hall, while impatient hands stripped the other of the superfluous layers of clothing, had continued on the stairs.

Carefree laughs and recommendations to be silent to avoid waking up Mrs. Hudson had led John, standing on the first step, to turn to the detective, still at the bottom of the staircase and to lay a few kisses on the black-haired man lips, both hands on Sherlock’s cheeks.

Excluding the recommendation to be silent, the little game had continued up the flight of stairs, but at each step the kisses had become longer, more intense and it was increasingly difficult to detach from each other, until they arrived at the door of their apartment and John found himself on tiptoes with his arms around the Sherlock’s neck, his back to the door.

Sherlock's muscular body was plastered against him, his lips busy exploring every hidden corner of the doctor’s mouth and John himself had no intention of detaching himself from the man, but in a distant part of his mind a little annoying voice was telling him to open the door and get inside the apartment, because if they did not stopped now they would have sex on the landing.

-John.... -

His name had been uttered countless times by Sherlock, but never in such a low tone and with such an obvious longing in his voice; a few times John had felt so desired, and for a moment he was afraid he would not live up to expectations.

After all, he was just a former military doctor, with a bad shoulder and a drug-addicted past, how could he be enough for a genius like Sherlock Holmes?

A man whose beauty made women and, although few admit it, men envious.

Whose genius was mind-blowing and unparalleled... A man who had put his life at risk to save his own, to make sure John was there with him now.

He got rid of his fears as he had done just few minutes before with his coat and, dissolving the embrace he had turned to open the door, shuddering when a slight kiss was laid at the base of the neck by two full lips.

The rest had been a succession of events all too fast: they had only managed to close the door of the apartment, before both trousers came down as if by magic and two hands crept quick between the fabric of the boxers to caress the soft and pulsating skin, hot and cold together, filling the living room with broken breaths and incomprehensible words, until John let himself go to a mumbled imprecation still in Sherlock's embrace and let slip a groan from his lips before coming in Sherlock hand.

Sherlock had followed him a few moments later, flooding his hand with the sticky and warm proof of his pleasure, murmuring his name and laying his forehead on his shoulder, wrapping an arm around John’s waist to better support himself.

Unable to breathe normally for a couple of minutes, Sherlock had been lulled by John's caresses and the small kisses that the man had placed on his jaw.

That moment had marked a new beginning, from which they could no longer go back.

John looked at the man's face next to him for a few more moments, toying with the idea of sinking his hand into the raven curls and waking him up, but nature overcame affection: a vague rumbling rose from his stomach, forcing him to return to reality; the day before he had only eaten a sandwich for dinner and now he was definitely hungry.

Reluctantly, he sat up, taking the red robe that Sherlock rarely used and trying to make as little noise as possible, he walked out of the room and closed the door behind him.

After a mandatory stop at the bathroom, John entered the kitchen and turned on the kettle and then slightly turned up the heating to fight the cold.

He was just making two cups of tea and at the same time checking the food content of their refrigerator, when two arms wrapped around his waist causing him to jolt.

"Damn!" exclaimed John, turning around.

Sherlock, standing in front of him, the silky blue robe over his pajama pants, looked at him with an unexpected guilty expression on his face.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to scare you" he apologized.

In those few moments, the doctor saw Sherlock's face change quickly, clearly uncomfortable in that totally unexplored field that were feelings.

Smiling at him, John placed his hand on his left side, in a gesture neither too intimate nor too formal.

"You didn't, but next time could you avoid being as quiet as a damn cat?" he asked in a calm tone, trying to put Sherlock at ease.

The hint of a smile that appeared on the man lips made John realize that he had succeeded in his intent.

Determined to continue that positive trail, John moved closer to Sherlock and placed a small tender kiss on his lips, his eyes open to meet the detective's ice-blue ones.

"Good morning" he said, hinting at a bigger smile "Are you hungry?" he asked Sherlock at a very small distance from Sherlock's face.

Following his example, Sherlock kissed him, gently stroking his lips several times, before moving away and latching loosely his arms around John's waist again.

-Good morning.

Oddly enough I have a slight appetite- Sherlock confessed.

-Which translated into English means you could eat a whole cow- teased John with a smile, moving in his embrace to take the carton of eggs and milk out of the fridge and close the fridge door.

For a few moments the two men remained silent, aware that they were on the edge, suspended between the known shore of their friendship and the unexplored one of a possible romantic relationship.

It would have been easy, and reckless, to throw oneself headlong into that new adventure, but to face a relationship without first laying the groundwork or talking extensively about what they expected from each other, would have led only to a painful break-up.

If things would gone wrong, John would not lose just a warm body, he would lose his roommate, his consultant detective, his legalized adrenaline... he would lose everything.

But if they would play their cards well, then there would be hope that everything would go as Sherlock had described last night: forty years of life together.

-Sherlock, we must talk about what happened last night-started John.

"So many things happened last night, should we discuss them all?"asked the man, and for a moment John could not figure out if it was a serious question or if Sherlock was making fun of him.

-How about we sit down and start at the beginning? -

Sherlock shrugged his shoulders, as if all this was not about him, but did not hint at moving, or loosening the embrace that bound him to John.

-I know you still have a few questions to ask me, and I promise I'll do my best to answer you sincerely, but first I need breakfast.

You know I'm more receptive after my first cup of tea-added John.

Sherlock let go an ironic chuckle but then walked away from the doctor; the kettle had turn off automatically after the arrival of Sherlock and the only contribution to the preparation of breakfast made by the detective was to pour boiling water into the mugs, leaving the tea infused.

In the next ten minutes John focused on cooking breakfast and when it was all ready, Sherlock sat down at the table, in his usual place, and looked at the plate of scrambled eggs and toast that John had put before him: the blond didn't particularly like that kind of egg , but every time Sherlock decided to have breakfast on his plate he always found scrambled eggs.

They've been his favorite since he was eight.

Why had he never noticed the little attention John was having for him?

**Because he took them for granted.**

They ate in silence, as if they were two strangers forced to share a coffee table in an overcrowded café, until Sherlock pushed aside his plate empty for three quarters, instantly noticing the satisfied smile that John had hurried to conceal and, cup clenched in his hands, stared at the doctor.

"Why did you stop last night? “he asked, avoiding unnecessary preambles.

It was a question he had been thinking about since he woke up that morning: John was not the kind of man who wasted his and his hook-ups time...

You don't earn the nickname "Three Watson Continents" if you waste time talking!

Everyone he talked to said that every Monday night, John would come home with a different person to have sex, and that night John came home with him, so why didn't they end up having sex?

Why had this "sex beast" been content with mutual masturbation and hadn't slammed him on the bed so that they could fully and mutually enjoy their bodies?

John, quietly continuing to eat, met his gaze and gave him at a little smile.

"I didn't actually stop" he replied.

"You know what I mean, or do you want me to become brutally specific as I can be?" retorted Sherlock.

"I'd rather avoid it, given the time and the fact that I haven't finished breakfast yet" John said, but moved his plate away to the center of the table.

For a few moments the blonde remained silent, staring at the tabletop irreparably ruined by Sherlock's crazy experiments, before meeting his gaze again, a serious expression on his face.

-You're not just a guy I met one night at a club, with whom I danced for a couple of hours and decided to spend the night with knowing that I will never see him again.

You are... Fuck! You're Sherlock Holmes, my Sherlock.

If you only knew...-he almost added in a whisper.

-What? -

What biological reaction caused zero saliva and tachycardia?

_My Sherlock_

He'd never been anybody's... No one had ever wanted him, there had been times when he had not felt desired even by his own family.

And now that wonderful man before him, this man who he had been on the verge of losing so many times that Sherlock had stopped counting them, had just exercised a right of ownership over him that Sherlock was very happy to grant him.

Were those feelings? Was this Love?

"During your absence I thought about how many times things between us could have gone differently if only I had said or done something different, if I had let you deduce my feelings for you" he said sincerely, looking back at the black-haired man’s face.

"What stopped you?" asked Sherlock, genuinely curious.

John hinted a smile.

-Oh, let me think Mr. I'm married to my work! - John teased him good-naturedly.

\- You were the one who told me that you weren’t interested in any kind of romantic bond from the beginning, so I kept repeating to myself that if all I could have was a friendship then it will be enough for me-admitted John.

Sherlock frowned.

-What about your girlfriends? -

John scoffed.

-Which one? Sarah, who had the worst date of her life with me and who was the first to understand the true nature of my feelings towards you? Or Jeanette who told me that you and I would be happy together? -he asked him, clearly amused.

Sherlock couldn’t help but smile, that special smile he reserved only for the man in front of him, watching him take a sip from his cup and grimace at the lukewarm tea.

"Also, don’t forget your infatuation with Irene" John said next.

A grimace stretched the detective's lips.

-It was a mental infatuation, not a physical one.

I told you that women are not my area- replied Sherlock promptly, locking memories of an all-too-recent past that continued to contradict those words into a crypt of his Mind Palace.

_"I promise I'll be nice..._ _"_

_"Despite the promises, you keep coming back to me..._ _"_

-Bullshit.

The only time I saw you in trouble during your deductions was when she was naked in front of you- John reminded him.

_"You screamed his name when you come... Don't tell me you’re in love with him,_ _you’d break my heart._"

Shaking his head slightly to clear his mind of those flashbacks, Sherlock got up and went to sit next to John, decreasing the distance between them.

-When did you realize... - Sherlock started.

"That I had feelings for you?" continued the other. - There must be something if you are willing to kill someone for a perfect stranger you only met thirty-six hours before.

But I think I figured it out after the pool.

If you come to offer yourself as a human sacrifice to save someone against a homicidal maniac and then agree to blow up, it really must be love-comment John, slightly lowering his voice, finding it hard to remember those moments.

-Right after the pool accident, you and Sarah went to New Zealand for two weeks, why...Oh-

How could he not understand it before?

John nodded, looking away from Sherlock, almost shameful.

-Understanding the depth of my feelings, knowing how far I would go for you and being aware at the same time that nothing will ever happen between us made me feel...- said John unable to find the right words to describe what he had felt back then.

Two full soft lips suddenly were on John's lips, interrupting his speech and causing him to raise his head slightly, improving the kiss.

Sherlock raised both hands to the side of the other's neck, trying to convey all those feelings to which he could not give a name to the blond, to make him understand that he no longer needed to be afraid, that all those insecurities now were unnecessary.

Putting an end to the kiss, Sherlock quickly peered into the other's face and smiled, relieved to note that all the anxiety of few moments before had vanished; clutching John's hand in his he sat down again.

"When did you know? “asked John after clearing his throat.

"No one ever found my deductions brilliant" the detective said.

"So soon?" asked surprised the other man, unable at the same time to hold back a smug smile.

Sherlock shrugged his shoulders, slightly covering his mouth with his right hand, as he always did whenever he was embarrassed.

"Why Sally?" asked Sherlock again, completely changing the subject.

"Why did I become friend with her in spite of everything she did to us?" he asked, receiving a nod in return.

-Don't get me wrong, I never forgave her for her involvement in the events that led to your death, but during your absence, I got a chance to meet the person behind the cop.

You should know better than anyone, that sometimes behind the meanest person hides the most fragile one-

-The violent father- readily answered Sherlock.

John nodded.

"What did you get it from?" he asked curiously.

-The scar on the right eyebrow, the left wrist clearly weaker than the right one, sign of an old fracture never perfectly healed, the tooth slightly broken and the tendency to show special attention whenever mistreated or abused minors are involved, an empathy superior to the professionalism required- listed Sherlock promptly, making the blonde smile.

-Brilliant as usual...

Anyway, Sally came to see me in the hospital the first time I was admitted: it was the second day, I had never spoken to anyone frankly offended because they had managed to save my life, and I kept staring at the wall of my room, while the doctors were deciding whether to call a specialist or a psychiatrist.

She sat next to me, staying silent for hours, I think she spent the night in that chair, and the next day she started telling me stories: she told me about the first time she met you, how you jumped out of a dark corner to expose your deductions about the case, high as a kite with cocaine and how you had yelled at Greg while he handcuffed you and took you to the station.

She told me dozens of stories of that kind, even managing to make me laugh...

She was the only one who understood, to know for some strange reason that I needed to talk about you, but not about the wonderful, crazy man I had lived with for eighteen months and continued to be a fixed presence in my mind, but that part of you that you had always kept me in the dark about and which had now become inaccessible-concluded.

"A distraction" Sherlock reflected.

John shrugged.

-Sort of- John granted him- That was the beginning, and slowly and especially thanks to Greg's constant help, we were able to get to know each other better and build our friendship-concluded.

In the apartment suddenly fell the silence, made even louder by the long speech that had preceded; John glanced sneakily at the detective, trying to figure out what was going through the mind of the genius, while Sherlock kept staring at the floor, for once speechless.

That was a situation he had never been in before, since he always avoided sentiment and feelings.

If they weren’t important for work, he would have completely erased them and now he was in the unusual position of not knowing how to read John's face.

In addition to the usual affection, the new physical interest that transpired almost clearly now that he knew how to recognize the signs, he had no idea what John expected of him.

Would John ask him to change some aspects of his nature that so far had annoyed him?

Would he use the new attraction Sherlock felt towards the doctor to force him to clean the fridge from the body parts, probably making the request for a second refrigerator only for human remains?

Would he have used their relationship to persuade him to accept boring but well-paid private cases in times of economic hardship?

"What will happen now Sherlock?" he heard John asking, while he was still immersed in his assumptions.

The detective looked up at John, not knowing if it was a joke for a few moments until it became clear to him that John was offering him one last chance to escape.

If he considered that relationship too demanding, Sherlock could still leave and their friendship would come out relatively intact: they would have remembered those few moments of intimacy for the rest of their lives, but among them there would always be an invisible but impenetrable barrier.

-You're the expert-answered Sherlock.

John gave him a smile.

"When it comes to normal relationships, yes, but it's the first time I’m with a genius" he said.

"I'm not going to give up my job," Sherlock said in one breath.

Talking was a mistake, an instinctive action that he would regret bitterly in a few moments, but he had decided that if he had to give up on John, he would at least try to explain his own reasons and desires.

If John won’t like his conditions, as Sherlock supposed, then no one could accuse him of not trying.

Contrary to his expectations, John nodded with his head, his face perfectly serene.

-I won’t either.

I know I'm going to have to start split my time again between the clinic and being your assistant, but if I've managed to do it in the past, I think I can do it again.

Moreover, I could never deprive the City of London of the only living consultant detective- he merely answered in a quiet tone.

Sherlock arched an eyebrow, slightly confused, but determined to take advantage of John's unexpected tolerance to gain some further advantage in their relationship.

-During an investigation my full attention will be dedicated to the work, everything else will be white noise for me...-he continued.

-As usual- John commented slightly amused.

-More or less.

But once the case is solved...-

"You're going to be all mine" said John, standing up and approaching the detective, wrapping his arms around Sherlock’s neck.

Caught off guard by the tone of his voice, tender words and affectionate gesture, Sherlock stiffened momentarily in the embrace, before taking a deep breath and relaxing again, lacing an arm around the doctor's waist, attracting him closer to him.

"There will still be days when I will be unbearable, when my experiments will annoy you, when I will not say more than five words in twenty-four hours... - he listed again.

-Sherlock, would you calm down?

I know it's not going to be easy: there will be good days and days when we're going to fight and I'm going to walk away slamming the door.

I'm going to keep tormenting you about food and the hours of sleep needed for a healthy life, and I'm going to keep scolding you for the body parts in the fridge and the eyes in the microwave.

You're going to roll your eyes and you're going to call me an idiot, but I'm always going to come home-

John slowly stroked his companion's black curls, almost reflecting on the next sentence.

-We are two difficult people: we are two stubborn and proud men.

You with your absurd experiments fundamental to the progress of science, me with my post-traumatic stress and my bad temper.

But we have created a life that reassures us and adapts to our needs... Without which we have shown that we are lost or able to barely function-

-I've never seen you be so romantic with your exes- Sherlock commented.

John shrugged.

"Perhaps because I was unconsciously aware that they weren't the right person for my romance" he replied, placing a slight kiss on the detective's full lips.

For the first time in many years, John felt lighter, finally free of a burden that had accompanied him since his return to Afghanistan.

Finally, what he had hoped for, desired, even banished from his own mind, was within reach and John would do anything to avoid missing that opportunity.

"What are we going to tell people? “asked the doctor, before starting to leave small kisses on Sherlock's jaw and neck.

He was crazy about that long, milky neck.

So many times, watching Sherlock at work at a crime scene he had found himself wondering if Yard officers would notice a hickey left in the right spot, just hidden by the collar of his coat.

"Would you like to keep our relationship a secret?" asked Sherlock, his long fingers tight around John's waist.

-Why would I? -

-Stop answering my questions with more questions!

You know that I am not an expert in this field, but I know that at the beginning of a relationship you should keep a low profile and avoid spreading the word, so if the relationship were to end quickly, you would not run the risk of enduring the false platitudes of the acquaintances and friends.

Personally, I would rather make things clear, let everyone know that we are a couple, so the English homosexual male population would know that you are no longer available.

Unless you're interested in an open couple...- Sherlock added.

John quickly shook his head.

-You know me, I'm faithful when I'm in a relationship... If my boy...-said stopping himself to the grimace of the other man-partner is Sherlock Holmes I have no reason to look around.

Anyway, I agree with you: people have always made innuendos about us, the guys at the Yard have started betting again since your return, so if they have to keep talking let’s give them a reason – John added with a amused smile on his face.

The detective nodded.

"Also, if we decide to keep it a secret, it would seem that we are ashamed of our feelings and never like this time I am sure of my decision" John concluded.

Sherlock smiled, laying a kiss on the lips of the other who, despite having started in a sweet way, quickly turned into more passionate kiss that kept them busy for a few minutes and that left them breathless.

"Is it official then? “asked John, his voice slightly broken, his forehead against Sherlock's.

Sherlock answered with an embarrassed smile, giving a quick thought to how many times he had already smiled that day thanks to John's presence in the apartment, before shrugging his shoulders.

-If you want, we can wait until we find the perfect dog for us-

At those words, John burst into a happy laugh that shook his shoulders and led him to abandon his head against Sherlock's right shoulder, Sherlock's low, thundering laugh in his ears.

When the silence returned in the apartment again, John moved his head on the man's shoulder and met his gaze, laying a kiss where the shoulder meets his neck, blissful of the thrill that shook the detective and remained motionless until Sherlock did not lower his head towards him to meet their lips again.

Contrary to the previous kiss, in this one any sweetness was absent, leaving room to the desire that the two men felt for each other and that they had hidden far too long: Sherlock bit John's lower lip with his teeth, recording only partially the strong fingers that sank into his curls pushing him forward towards the solid body of the blonde, while the tip of a foreign tongue stroked his upper lip, drawing the contour of his lips, before meeting his twin and engaging it in a languid dance.

A subdued groan escaped from Sherlock's lips, taking him by surprise when, as if they had their own life, his arms clung more against John's waist, luring him against his body, making their bodies connect from chest to hips.

The need for air forced the two men to separate, leading John to caress the skin from the jaw to the ear with his teeth, lips and tongue, turning Sherlock into a shaking mess.

"John…" he whispered, trying to cling to that one certainty as the world around him quickly vanished.

One hand slipped on Sherlock’s chest, stopping on the belt that held the blue robe closed around his waist and, a few seconds later, slow fingers worked to untie the already loosened knot.

“I'm busy... I don’t know whether to write my initials on your neck with bites or hickeys” he said, meeting Sherlock’s gaze again, now completely different as if his eyes were liquid mercury and smiled.

Not even Irene had managed to provoke those reactions, he thought proud and satisfied with himself.

Sherlock swallowed hearing the possessive tone in the other man's voice.

"Why not both?" he proposed in a broken voice.

The smile on John's face grew bigger, before giving Sherlock another quick kiss, stroking the inside of his upper lip with the tip of his tongue.

-Even in this matter you have the best ideas...- commented John, before attacking his lips to Sherlock’s neck again.

Unable to think under that rain of stimuli, Sherlock let himself go, a hand firmly clasped around the corner of the table to hold himself up, folded almost completely on John, until a distant noise forced him to pay a tenth of his attention to what was going on outside their apartment, searching for the origin of the noise in his archive and suddenly stiffening in the embrace when he recognized it.

Suspicious of the abrupt change in Sherlock, John looked up to meet the detective’s eyes.

"What's going on?" asked John worried.

-Someone's coming. There is no reason to be alarmed, we just have to remain still and silent.

With a little bit of luck, they will leave, and they will not disturb us anymore-said Sherlock in a whisper.

John make to ask more information, but two strong blows were struck on the door of their apartment, followed by a firm and secure voice.

-Sherlock William Holmes! Open this door this instant! - ordered a female voice.

John frowned and stared at Sherlock perfectly motionless in his embrace.

"William?" he mouthed without making any sound, slightly surprised.

Sherlock rolled his eyes, obviously annoyed that in that situation what caught John's attention was his name.

-I know you're in there Sherlock, your landlady told me. I can ask Robert to open the door, but it's much better for you to let me in- the voice continued, at the same time authoritarian and polite.

One detail caught John's attention, leading him to alternately stare at the door and his partner: contrary to what had happened in the past, there was a woman at the door; a woman who knew Sherlock well enough to know his middle name.

"Who is she?" the doctor asked.

-My mother-replied Sherlock, aware that he could not keep that secret for much longer.

An incredulous expression appeared on John's face.

-Your mother? What are you doing here? But why don't you want to let her in? -asked John, ending their embrace.

In the eighteen months they had lived together, the times Sherlock had mentioned his mother could be counted on the tips of one hand: John knew that both Holmes men were very close to the woman, despite during their childhood she had not been present because of her work, leaving much of their education to nannies and their father.

"She might be slightly annoyed that I haven’t visited her at the Mansion since I returned to London" Sherlock said in a whisper.

"You mean in two and a half months you haven't gone to see your mother yet?"asked John, beginning to understand the problem.

But Sherlock shook his head.

-Let's say more thirty-eight months and a half- he said practical as usual.

John opened his eyes in disbelief: if Elizabeth Watson had been outside the door, Sherlock would have been in big troubles as soon as they had come face to face.

"Not good?" asked Sherlock with that confused look that sometimes made him look like a little dog.

"What do you think?" asked John -Open the door, Sherlock! -

-But...- tried to replicate the detective.

-No excuses! Your mother hasn't seen you in three years, with a brief interlude in which she thought you were dead before Mycroft reassured her, so now you're going to open the door and be quiet while she scolds you, because that's what a good son does... Even those with an out-of-the-ordinary intelligence like you- concluded John by walking away from the kitchen table and closing his dressing gown that had opened slightly.

A slight pout arched downwards Sherlock’s lips, before following John's example and re-attached his slim belt to his waist, closing his dressing gown, moving toward the door of the apartment.

With his steady hand on the handle he took a deep breath and a smile appeared as if by magic to stretch out his lips.

The next instant he opened the door and John saw in action all his charm.

-Mommy! What a beautiful...-he greeted her affable.

-Don't even try Sherlock! I'm really mad at you- stopped him immediately the woman.

John found himself terribly curious to know the woman who could instantly silence Sherlock Holmes and wondered if she had that power even over the eldest of the Holmes: he would pay a pretty sum to see someone silence the British government like that.

"Do you want to come in?" he heard Sherlock ask to his mother.

"It’s up to you, honey: do you want to bother your landlady with my reproaches and your attempts to justify your behavior?" she asked in a calm voice.

John saw the detective shrug his shoulders.

-Mrs. Hudson doesn't mind. She scolds me enough too" he replied, but at the same time he stepped aside to allow her mother to come in.

John's first look at Mrs. Holmes completely upset his expectations: he had expected a tall, slender woman with Sherlock-black hair or tending to brown like Mycroft's, with a tongue as sharp as that of her children and equally wrapped in haute couture dresses.

Instead, he was confronted with a woman ten centimeters taller than himself, with soft curves wrapped in a midnight blue dress accompanied by a pair of shoes of the same color with a low heel.

On her ears and around her neck she wore a pair of earrings and a pendant (both diamonds).

Her hair was completely white, the longer tips caressed the back of her neck, her face with its wrinkles did not hide the sign of time, but at the same time managed to keep intact authority.

A man, in a dark suit, with a small earpiece in his right ear, one step behind from the woman, with a Blackberry in his right hand was instantly classified as the male version of Anthea... It was probably a custom of the Holmes family to have personal assistants.

The woman glanced at the apartment, cataloguing every detail, and the next moment she turned to John, giving him an affable smile and walking towards him.

-Dr. Watson. It is a pleasure to finally get to meet you: I have heard a lot about you.

I'm Lady Violet Mercier Holmes-said the woman.

John returned her smile and, undecided on whether to shake her hand or not, merely nodded his head.

-Pleasure is all mine, Lady Holmes.

I can only assume what Mycroft told you about me but knowing him I am sure he will have been extremely thorough" he said sincere.

John glanced at Sherlock and saw him raise his eyes to the sky, clearly bored by all that ceremonial.

"Would you like a cup of tea?" asked the doctor again, trying to play all his cards to the best of his ability to impress Sherlock's mother.

"One never refuses tea, does it?" she asked.

John nodded.

-I couldn't have said it better.

Would you like something to drink? -he then asked the man in black.

"No, Robert doesn't eat, drink, sleep or breathe without my mother's permission" Sherlock said, moving into the living room toward his own chair.

-Sherlock...-scolded his mother by following him into the living room and sitting in John's chair.

John walked in the kitchen, trying to fill the silence that had descended into the room: he filled and put on the kettle, took three clean cups and arranged in each a tea bag, opened the pantry in search of some chocolate biscuit aware that chocolate biscuits always put Sherlock in a good mood and put the sugar bowl close to the detective's cup.

Sherlock heard the usual noises coming from the kitchen and calmed down: his mother was in Baker Street, an unpleasant novelty, but she was not there to force him to move or leave John and his work behind.

She was there to see him, to reassure herself, to be sure that he was fine and that three years spent killing and catching international criminals had not had any traumatic consequences on him.

Sherlock took another deep breath and put his eyes back on his mother's face, which, despite the affable smile plastered to her lips, was still disheartened by his behavior.

"So, what can I do for you Mommy?" he asked her, breaking her silence.

The woman placed her hands on her knees perfectly aligned with each other and stared at him a few moments before answering.

-Many things, Sherlock: you might come to see me more often, you could cut those hairs that are definitely out of control, but most of all you could make me aware of your plans when you decide to stage your own death-she answered.

_Not good, not good, not good_, a voice warned him instantly.

Before he could intervene, his mother spoke again.

"Do you think it's reasonable that I had to find out from your brother that you were still alive?" she asked again.

As expected, a sudden noise came to their ears from the kitchen (the kettle placed too forcefully in its place) and next John appeared in the living room.

-Sherlock, would you mind taking care of the tea?

It's getting late and I haven't yet notified the clinic that I’m taking a day off today" he said, looking at the detective.

Sherlock nodded, observing how the man's face instantly calmed himself at the mere certainty of walking away from that room and the talk they would have.

It was only when he heard the door to John's room close that the detective stood up and walked into the kitchen, paying no attention to his mother, feeling slightly guilty about the suffering that, even the slightest hint of his disappearance seemed to provoke in John.

"Is it still a difficult subject?" he was asked, from a voice closer than he expected.

The black-haired man turned a little and saw his mother sitting in the place that until recently had been occupied by him, during that conversation so unusual and important that had totally changed the relationship between Sherlock and his doctor.

"What do you think?" he said, putting a cup in front of his mother.

-With a splash of milk and no sugar, if I remember correctly- he added, sitting in John's place, his cup clenched in his hands and a smile to bend his lips to the thought that before leaving, John had made his tea.

For a few moments they remained silent (_his mother had taken only a few sips, and each time a strange expression had been painted on her face, so he must have done something wrong in finishing the drink, making it as his usual undrinkable; confirmed moments later by the little movement with which his mother had pushed the cup towards the center of the table and away from herself_), until his mother took a deep breath.

"Why haven't you come home since your return to London?" she asked.

_Home_...

His mother should explain better that word: for his mother, home was the Mansion just outside London where he and Mycroft had grown up and where his father spent his summers returning from Cambridge.

For him, _home_ was Baker Street with the perfectly neat chaos, Mrs. Hudson and her cookies, the light of the lamppost coming in from the window next to the lectern and lighting up the music sheets allowing him to keep playing all night.

Most importantly _Home_ was John Watson and his horrendous sweaters, the smell of disinfectant and gunpowder.

Sherlock Holmes had returned to Baker Street as soon as he could, but only now did he really feel at _home._

"I've had a lot of things to do" he said sincerely.

"Were you so busy that you couldn't find two hours to visit your mother?"asked the woman.

-Since you're the one asking, yes.

I had things to fix-added Sherlock reluctantly.

Despite his gaze still on the teacup, the only evidence that John was still there with him, Sherlock felt his mother's attentive eyes on himself, looking for all the necessary information.

"What happened, darling?" she asked, a new sweet tone in her voice.

It was precisely that tone that had so often framed him as a child: it was with that voice that she convinced him to tell her where he had hidden Mycroft's books or where he had built the nest for mysterious eggs that he had found the day before in the garden.

It was that tone, coupled with the idea of collaborating with Scotland Yard and Lestrade, that finally convinced him to make one last attempt at rehab.

Sherlock passed his fingers through the black curls and sighed.

-It wasn't easy to come back after all this time and realize that my deductions were wrong...- he started.

"Did you think no one would miss you?"asked his mother again.

-You know the theory on the five-stages of pain.

I was convinced that once they passed the Acceptance Stage, everyone would move on with their lives and forget me... It wasn't pleasant to think that the only people I thought were important to me would end up erasing me from their lives, but it was the most reasonable solution...-said Sherlock, stopping midsentence.

-What happened instead? -

Sherlock thought back to the first time he had seen John, in that slightly grainy photo of surveillance cameras; he thought back to the first time they had come face to face, to John's disbelieving and hurt look.

He thought back to the silence that had invaded Baker Street for weeks and to the umpteenth wall that John had raised against him after the press conference.

For a few moments he relived the sense of emptiness and insecurity that had attacked him so frequently in those months, the fear of losing the only person in the world to make him healthy, despite the hurtful allusions, and he was forced to close his eyes so as not to succumb to that fear.

"That there are those who have reinvented themselves in order not to forget me...- he murmured more to himself than to his mother.

A hand perfectly manicured rested on one of his own, leading him look up to her face.

"I don't want to talk about it" he said, walking away from his mother "To be honest, I'd come to see you this week" he added, standing up and walking away from the table.

Lady Violet nodded.

"I have to assume that things between you and Dr. Watson are fine now" she said with a knowing smile.

Sherlock merely shrugged his shoulders, aware that his mother would read the real answer in his body language.

Lady Violet stood a few moments in silence, before resting both hands on the table, her gaze on her son.

-Now let me tell you a couple of things.

First of all, the next time you feel the need to stage your death, if you really believe that I can be of no help, the least you can do is inform me, so that I will not spend my days crying for my son’s death-she said allowing Sherlock a few seconds to make objections and receiving a nod of assent in return.

-Second, I demand that you and Dr. Watson come to the Mansion today, where your brother and his partner will join us for lunch.

Listen carefully Sherlock: I'm not asking you; I demand it.

I need to spend some time with my kids, and I also want to meet Dr. Watson.

I know there will be no shortage of teases and jokes between you and Mycroft, but I expect you to behave in the best possible way... In part, you owe me, since it's your first visit to the Mansion in three years.

Ah, and you're not allowed to leave slamming the door like you always do- she added an instant later.

Sherlock snorted, clearly annoyed, but made no objections, aware that he would not achieve anything.

-To conclude... Your tea is really horrible- concluded the woman with a smile.

Sherlock let go of a little chuckle in turn.

"John usually takes care of it”.

Lady Violet smiled and stood a few moments in silence, before looking up at her son, who was serious again.

-There's one last thing... Don't you ever do that again, honey.

Despite being aware of your plan, I missed you terribly every day during your absence-she said approaching the man.

Impressed by those words, Sherlock remained silent for a few moments, tormenting the waistband of his robe with his long fingers, before looking up at his mother's face.

"I can see now that it was not one of my brightest ideas" he said.

Lady Violet nodded and put her hand on Sherlock’s arm, conscious that those words were as close as to "Sorry" she would ever receive from her son, and then put a kiss on Sherlock’s right cheek.

A movement in the living room brought his attention to the door, followed a few moments later by the sound of steps on the stairs (_an adult_) that stopped right in front of the landing of the apartment.

Two shots were fired on the door before Robert opened it.

Upon entering the living room, Sherlock was confronted by Jack, who returned Robert's gaze with a particularly concerned one, until he noticed Sherlock's presence.

"Hey Sherlock!" he greeted him, smiling at the detective.

"What are you doing here?" the detective asked him clearly surprised.

-The correct answer is: "Hello Jack, how are you?" -teased the other man, unperturbed by the detective's abrupt manners, entering the living room, passing Robert still standing at the door.

Before Sherlock could retort, Emma followed her father into the apartment, taking the detective by surprise (_the usual greeting to Mrs. Hudson, that’s why he only heard Jack’s steps on the stairs_).

"Hi Sherlock" she said, smiling at him, before going to sit in John's chair.

-Emma! Shouldn't you be at school? - he asked her looking at her, his forehead slightly frowned.

Emma was once again wearing comfortable clothes: a pair of jeans and a pink sweater, with white sneakers (_she must have_ _left her coat on the hanger next to the front door, with the intention of staying for a long time_), with one backpack on her shoulders.

"The school is closed for The Bank Holiday" the girl informed him, removing the backpack and placing it on her lap.

-What is Bank Holiday? - asked the detective.

Jack looked at him in disbelief for a few moments before shaking his head.

-John! Jack and Emma are here!" called Sherlock as he approached the stairs leading to the doctor's bedroom.

In the brief silence that followed, Sherlock glanced at his mother, aware that the woman was watching everything carefully, looking for the possible connections between Sherlock and the two newcomers: should he do the introductions?

Before he could decide, he heard the sound of the door opening above him and noisy steps on the stairs announcing John's arrival in the living room.

"Hey, what are you doing here?" asked the surprised doctor to Jack, before turning his gaze on Emma who, running to meet him, had tied her arms to his waist.

\- Hey darling! -greeted her with an affectionate smile, then bending down to receive a kiss on the cheek.

-Uncle John! What happened to your cane? - asked the little girl curious.

"Obviously Sherlock’s good manners are already rubbing off on you…" said Jack, an amused smile on his lips.

Before the situation escalated, John decided to take control of it.

\- Jack, Emma this is Lady Violet Holmes, Sherlock's mom.

Lady Violet, this is my good friend Jack Micheals and his daughter Emma-

Remembering his manners, Jack made a little bow with his head toward the woman.

-Pleasure to meet you Lady Violet-he greeted her.

"Hello, my name is Emma" said the little girl, making Lady Violet smile.

-Well now that we are done with the boring pleasantries... It’s obvious that you need something, and that this favor is about Emma, otherwise she wouldn't be here...- meddled Sherlock, clearly bored.

"Can you watch Emma today?" asked Jack straight to the point.

The doctor frowned but remained silent.

-Today Emma and I were supposed to spend the day together: Mary is busy with a Japanese delegation and had given me an extra day to be with Emma; we had planned all day, but I was called back to work...-explained the man.

"God bless America!" commented Sherlock.

John let go a snort that led Jack to raise his eyes to the sky.

-It's not funny Sherlock!

They were supposed to leave yesterday, but the last meeting was adjourned to tomorrow for some reason top-secret for us ordinary people... - complained Jack.

-It’s been postponed because Mycroft will spend the day at the Mansion with our mother, and we're invited too- Sherlock explained.

"Who is Mycroft? “asked Jack.

"Really? “asked John surprised at the same time, casting a glance at the detective.

-I would have told you as soon as you came back in the living room...-said Sherlock to John.

-It's not an invitation is an order to which you can't back down- intervened Lady Violet.

John nodded slowly.

"Well, if the British government can't get away from this invitation, neither can we" he said, unaware that his words made Sherlock smile happily.

“Did you try calling a babysitter?" - asked then turning to look at Jack.

-Where do you think I’ll find a babysitter on a Tuesday morning and at the very last minute?

Also, Emma wanted to spend some time with you and Sherlock-added Jack.

"Really?" asked Sherlock.

"Ah, Jack, this is low even for you” John said.

Emma quickly shook her head and ran towards Sherlock, grabbing the sleeve of his dressing gown, surprising everyone in the room.

-It’s true!

I told my teacher about our visit to the museum and she praised me in front of the whole class; so I thought we could visit some other museum and Uncle John and I could teach you something else about "Doctor Who"- the little girl began.

"So, you thought you'd trade some of my knowledge with instructions on how to build that time machine?" asked Sherlock.

Emma sighed, slightly frustrated.

"I've already told you that no one can build the Tardis, unless it's a Time Lord... " retorted Emma.

-Just because no one has ever succeeded before it doesn’t mean that it is impossible; you only have to find the appropriate instructions-continued unworried Sherlock.

Emma stared at him for a few moments, clearly undecided whether or not to believe him before letting go of another sigh.

"I'll tell you what I know about the Tardis, and you help me look good with Miss Porter by helping me with my research, ok?" she asked Sherlock.

"It seems reasonable enough to me" Sherlock replied.

Only once that agreement was reached did the black-haired man look up, finding four pairs of eyes fixed on him: he turned to John and noticed the look of disbelief and at the same time appreciation (_it was_ _ excitement that veil that covered his man’s blue eyes?_).

"Not good? “he asked, frowning.

John shook his head, remaining silent.

He then turned to his mother, who looked equally incredulous.

"If we move lunch to the house in London, Emma can come with us" he said.

-I already sent a message to Mycroft to warn him of the change of plans- informed the woman.

"Really?" asked Jack, surprised.

-Didn’t you listen the conversation I had with your daughter?

We have stuff to do, it is necessary that she come with us-replied Sherlock.

"That's right!" the little girl replied joyful.

"Would you like to excuse us for a minute?" John stepped in, moving toward Sherlock's bedroom, followed the next moment by the detective.

"Are you sure Sherlock?" asked John again, after closing the door behind them.

-I wouldn't have said anything otherwise.

I like Emma, she's smart and clever as she showed me from the deal she proposed to me; I also know you and I knew that despite your initial grievances you would end up helping Jack and this would leave me alone at lunch with my mother, Mycroft and Lestrade out of town probably for the whole day.

Besides, you weren't allowed to back down, since my mom's going to have a chat with you.

So, if Emma's presence is the price to pay for having you with me, well so be it- concluded Sherlock.

John stared at him for a few moments, before putting his face closer to Sherlock and kissing those perfect lips.

"What happened before with Emma... - he said then, stroking his black hair.

"Not good?" asked Sherlock.

"It was fine… More than fine" the doctor replied before kissing him again.

Sherlock relaxed briefly against John, hiding his face in the other's neck, before breathing deeply.

-If we really have to spend the day with your mom then you better start getting dressed.

I'm going back outside" John said, dissolving their embrace.

Back in the living room, John found Jack busy making the last recommendations to his daughter, while Mrs. Holmes was busy texting on her phone.

-Emma will spend the day with us.

Is it okay with you, Jack? -John asked his friend.

-Do you think I'd be here otherwise? If you give me the address, I'll pick her up around six o'clock-

John glanced at Mrs. Holmes who still seemed terribly busy with her own phone and shrugged.

"You can come here; I don't want to inadvertently reveal some state secrets" said John.

Jack raised an eyebrow, asking him a mute question, before shaking his head.

"Okay, I'd better go..." he said as he approached Emma, sitting once again in John's chair reading, giving her a kiss on both cheeks.

\- Have fun and be good! -said Jack to Emma before heading to the door.

"I'd better go too" said Mrs. Holmes, standing up and stopping in front of the doctor- I'd be a terrible hostess if my guests arrive before me- she added with a smile that John had seen several times on Sherlock's face.

John escorted her to the door and gave her a little nod with his head in salute.

-See you soon John- greeted the woman, followed by her assistant on the seventeen steps that would lead her into the street.

John closed the door behind them and took a deep breath: what a day.

____________________________________________

The first thought that popped to John's mind when he laid his eyes on Holmes House was that he had suddenly ended up in a movie, expecting at any moment to see Hugh Grant open the door.

The Holmes townhouse consisted of an entire three-story building in the West End, on Charlotte Street, with a brick facade and a vibrant cobalt door.

Upon their arrival they were greeted by a housekeeper, whom Sherlock called Myrtle and from whom he was called Lock, despite being in his forties, causing an amused smile on John and Emma’s lips and causing the detective to turn a pretty shade of pink.

The house, consisting of two living rooms, four bedrooms, two libraries (one with antique books and the other with a library stocked with more modern titles), a spacious kitchen, a garden and four bathrooms, was completely different from everything John had ever seen in his life.

Never, in his life as a teenager or as an adult, had John been in contact with so much elegance, luxury and taste: the man came from a middle-class family, where it was considered a luxury to have a new appliance (he still remembered his mother's beaming smile when they could finally afford the vacuum cleaner), and confronting the disparity of his and Sherlock's lifestyle left him breathless for a few moments.

John was aware that the man came from a wealthy family, it was enough to take a look at his tailoring clothes to understand it, but the man had never given a thought to money, a circumstance demonstrated several times by the fact that without the cheque of his pension or his salary, sometimes they would find themselves without electricity or heating.

"If this is your London home, I can only imagine what the Mansion is like" he said.

Sherlock shrugged.

-It’s my mother's house, not mine-

After taking a small sightseeing tour and waiting for Mycroft and Greg to arrive, the three settled into one of the living rooms.

"Is there anything in particular that I shouldn't talk about with your mother? “John asked, looking at the detective.

The man shrugged.

"I don't think so, she probably already has a complete dossier on all of our actions from the moment we met to date" Sherlock said.

John smiled.

-Mycroft can be really accurate when he wants...-he just commented.

The man merely groaned.

The next moment the bell rang, announcing the arrival of the last guests.

"Are you ready?" asked John, preparing himself for a full day with the two Holmes brothers.

"I'd rather face a horde of Yakuza with my bare hands than be here" said sincere the detective.

Again, John smiled, dropping his left hand on the nearest knee, tightening it slightly to reassure him.

-It's going to end sooner than you think and then we're going to be home again. Also, you're not alone, me and Emma will protect you.

Right, Emma?" he asked the little girl with a smile.

The little girl nodded.

-If you're scared, I can be your personal guard and drive away all the bad guys-said Emma looking at Sherlock.

The detective's lips curved in a little smile, but the arrival of Mycroft and Greg prevented him from answering.

"Good morning, everybody" said the older Holmes.

"Hello guys- said Greg, nodding his head to John who promptly returned.

-Lestrade... Mycroft, I see that the diet is not working- said Sherlock in greeting.

John let out a sigh, certainly the first in a long series, and turned to the two men, who had meanwhile taken their seats on the sofa in front of them.

\- Greg, Mycroft.

Can I introduce you to Emma?

Em, they are...-said John making introduction.

"You are the name on the gravestone" said the little girl, looking at Mycroft.

The British official stiffened and stared suspicious at the little girl, while Sherlock tried to hide a laugh with a cough.

"I'm sorry?" Mycroft asked, polite as usual.

-A few weeks ago, Sherlock and Uncle John took me to the museum with the dinosaurs and Sherlock showed me the stone and the names of the people who gave money to the museum and there was also your name- explained the little girl.

Slightly more relaxed, but still tense, like he almost expected a surprise attack at any moment, Mycroft nodded.

-I see...-

John looked at Greg, clearly amused by the brief exchange, looking for a topic of conversation to solve the embarrassment, but Emma beat him on time once more, this time watching Sherlock.

"You and Mycroft don't look alike at all" she said.

"The fact that we share the same DNA is already a big problem " the detective commented, as if that answer ended the discussion.

-Usually brothers and sisters have the same hair or eye color or have a similar nose-

"Sherlock and Mycroft have the same cheekbones" Greg said.

"The same intelligence" John added.

Emma stared at him in silence, clearly dissatisfied, until Sherlock leaned forward, both elbows on his knees, and met the little girl's gaze.

-It’s a bit like River Song and Amy Pond.

They have the same DNA, they are mother and daughter, but if you exclude red hair they have few things in common.

One is decidedly more adventurous and risk-loving, while the other, despite loving adventure in the same way feels the need for stability, constant reassurances, of something that reminds her that there is a world beyond her adventures with the Doctor.

The same happens with the brothers: you can have the same parents and be completely different or be identical but have nothing in common-said Sherlock without looking away from Emma.

The little girl frowned for a few moments, before shrugging her shoulders.

"Just to know... - meddled Mycroft, leading the detective to look up at the group of adults- But what the heck are you talking about?" he asked.

Emma shook her head, disconsolate.

-Don’t worry about it, Myc. But to be honest, I'm curious: who would you be: Amy or River? -asked Greg.

Sherlock met for an instant John's stare, looking at the same time impressed and curious by that speech so little "Holmesian", and after a quick glance he returned to look at the Inspector.

-Obviously none of them, Lestrade.

I'm Rory Williams-answered Sherlock, before standing up and walking towards one of the hallways.

_________________________________

The library they were in was warm and friendly.

It was clearly the oldest, as demonstrated by the texts in various languages all perfectly aligned on the bookshelves and the various portraits that adorned the walls.

John had hoped to have enough time to prepare for that meeting, but Lady Holmes had asked him to accompany her to the upstairs library, as if she was afraid of getting lost in the numerous rooms of the house.

Sitting in a red leather armchair with a high back, a short distance from Lady Holmes, John held his breath, not knowing what to expect: it was not the first time he had been subjected to that kind of conversation, but he was usually confronted by a wary father determined to scare him with any means possible.

He had had his dose of "_If you make my daughter suffer you will regret it _", but he had the distinct feeling that, in this case, no one would notice his disappearance, so much would be accurate the work by the Ministry to erase all traces of its existence.

\- Breath Dr. Watson.

I promise I will try to make this meeting as enjoyable as possible.

Sherlock would never forgive me if I did otherwise" the woman said in a calm voice.

John tried to smile and relax.

-As I told you this morning in your apartment, I heard a lot about you- Lady Violet began.

"I can only imagine how detailed Mycroft’s files are" said John, winning a smile from the woman.

"But I have to confess that when I first heard about you, when they told me you were going to move to Baker Street with my son, I immediately became apprehensive-confessed Lady Holmes.

John frowned: was he really such a dangerous subject?

-Don't get me wrong. It wasn’t about you.

The last time Sherlock shared an apartment with a stranger, it didn't go very well-she said without explaining further and letting the silence fall for a few moments.

-I know that at first glance Sherlock does not give the impression of the extroverted and sociable person, but it has not always been like this.

When he was a child, he was a sweet and affectionate child, extremely curious and full of questions… I remember he always carried a notebook with him on which he wrote all the most urgent questions to ask me or his father, and sometimes he would ask both of us the same questions to check our answers were consistent and that we weren't making fun of him" she told him, always with a smile to stretch her lips.

John smiled in return: it was not difficult to imagine a skinny, black-haired child with an inquisitive look, searching for data already so fundamental to the construction of his Mind Palace.

-During adolescence, this family became its safe haven: the shelter where he could be himself, despite the shyness that had taken hold of him, without fear of being belittled or mocked for his intelligence-

"I can only imagine what he had to endure" said John, feeling a protective streak for his partner.

Lady Holmes put a few strands of hair behind her ear and sighed.

-It was hard, but despite everything Sherlock knew he could count on us, even though I was often away from home for work or Mycroft had left for Cambridge.

Then one day everything started to collapse...-

The woman looked behind the red armchair on which John sat, clearly lost in her thoughts, and the doctor decided to remain silent and leave her time to recover.

-My husband was older than me: his intelligence was out of the ordinary and it was the first thing that struck me in him.

I'm really happy that our children inherited his wisdom and ingenuity...-she said as if it were a thought more for herself than for John-He was a data analyst at the Park during World War II...-

-The park? Do you mean Bletchely Park? -John interrupted her in disbelief - Your husband was a war hero! -he exclaimed in disbelief.

Lady Holmes smiled proud.

-When I met Alastair, I was a student and he was a professor of biology and chemistry, the kind of courses women were not allowed to attend, because they were deemed useless for our future as mothers and family wives...-commented with a sarcastic grimace that so many times the doctor had seen on Sherlock's face.

"However, Alastair saw something in me, something that convinced him to help me with my studies and later led him to encourage me to continue my career, despite having two children and we were both two very busy people”

-Why doesn't Sherlock ever talk about his father? Or you? -asked John, unable to curb his own curiosity.

Until then John had always attributed that reluctancy to a coldness in family relationships, to parents who were absent or who had disowned Sherlock because of his past with drugs or for his work, but hearing Lady Holmes speak had led him to thinking again and wondering why Sherlock had kept that part of himself hidden from him, when there were no secrets between them.

Lady Holmes smiled a sad smile.

-Gregory asked me the same question when he was in your place and, unlike Sherlock, Mycroft has a portrait of Alastair in the living room of their apartment.

I think it is a defense mechanism: both Mycroft and Sherlock were very close to their father; my husband's acquaintances helped Mycroft climb early in his career, and Sherlock had found in his father a worthy intellectual opponent.

After his death, Mycroft closed in on himself, taking on the role of the head of the family, while Sherlock found himself alone, completely lost...-

-And that's when he started using drugs-continued John in her place.

Lady Violet nodded, remaining silent again for a few moments, trying to drive away from her mind the terrible memories she was carrying.

\- He will tell you that he did it out of boredom, to help his own cognitive processes, but the truth is that the death of Alastair has completely destroyed his spirit... And I couldn't protect him.

It was after that experience, after the drugs and during the rehabilitation that he built that armor of indifference that he wears every day and that keeps everyone away.

With one exception... You-

John stared at her surprised by the sudden change of speech.

-Me? -

Lady Violet nodded, smiling again.

"You must have noticed something" the woman said.

This time it was John who remained silent, taking a moment to reflect: it had been obvious from the very first moment that their relationship was different from those that the detective had with Lestrade or Molly, although he had never been able to understand what made it different.

They had not made any changes to fit each other, there had been no bargaining (except of course the one in Bart's lab when they met) ... They had simply slipped into each other's lives, fitting together perfectly.

Like two pieces of the same puzzle.

-I can only speak for myself.

Our friendship was immediately different from those I had in the past: this complete stranger who in less than two minutes can tell me the story of my life... Extraordinary.

It left me speechless.

But I'm sure you read the files and that you are already aware of this-commented John, shaking his head a little.

"I know from personal experience that it's not easy to live with my son" said Lady Violet.

-I agree.

In addition, you have seen our apartment: it is definitely smaller than this house and I assume your Estate.

Yet there is no area that is not occupied by newspapers, papers full of notes and folders from the Yard; on any given day we have mold growing under the sink and which cannot be disturbed for the sake of Science, and the severed body parts in the refrigerator right next to the food, but we are perpetually short of milk-said John smiling.

-Despite all this, every time I have a nightmare Sherlock starts playing the violin regardless of the fact that it is the middle of the night, only to calm me down and help me regain consciousness of reality.

He knows when to remain silent and on the sidelines when I had a bad day at work and I need time to leave everything behind and knows when to raise the heating temperature to prevent the damaged muscles of my shoulder from getting numb-said the doctor, listing all the little attention Sherlock had always had for him and that now seemed like little gestures of love.

"How did you feel when he disappeared? “the woman asked cautiously.

John looked down on his own hands; he had expected such a question, but this did not prevent his heart from beating quickly or his hands from turning clammy.

-Lost... Completely lost- he said before taking a long breath to try to calm down- When Sherlock disappeared, my feelings were confused, so I couldn't explain why losing my best friend was so painful.

I had already lost friends and fellow soldiers during my years of service in the Army, but I never suffered for anyone as...-said unable to finish the sentence.

He cleared his throat and looked up, meeting Lady Violet's, who offered him a sweet smile in response.

-Sherlock often says that I am his "moral compass" ... Without him I had lost my direction-

"How did you feel when he came back?" asked Lady Violet again.

-It wasn't easy.

It's hard even now.

There were days when we didn't say a word to each other, but we kept following one another with our eyes when me or him went out of the room to make sure the other didn't go anywhere at any moment.

In the end, we were forced to deal with the problem, we talked at length and I think we are both now on common ground ready to start again- answered honest John.

Lady Violet nodded, crossing her legs in an elegant and authoritarian gesture at the same time.

"You are going to think of me as old school, but I have to ask you: what are your intentions towards Sherlock?" she decided to ask.

John chuckled.

-To be honest I would have expected this question from Mycroft-he confessed before returning serious.

He thought back to the words Sherlock had told him the night before and the long talk they had that same morning, just before the arrival of Lady Holmes, and for the first time in a long time he found himself confident in the future.

-If it was up to me, I'd ask him to marry me.

Not now, of course, not with all the problems we have at the moment, but definitely in a couple of years I would try to put a ring on his finger.

I'd buy a dog and continue our usual life, maybe slightly less dangerous, until we're too old to run after criminals-

"What's stopping you?" asked Lady Violet.

John briefly imagined a possible marriage, the expression on Sherlock's face as he proposed, the knowledge that no one could ever separate him from Sherlock.

It was just a beautiful dream...

-He would never say yes-

___________________________________________

-I like your house.

It's bigger on the inside-

Sherlock had managed to be civil with his brother for ten minutes.

A record, since the last time they found themselves face to face, he had just discovered John's drug-addicted past and had an uncontrollable desire to punch that authoritarian mask.

He also knew his mother: she intended to talk to John and would make sure to have that conversation as soon as possible, even before lunch, although this could compromise the mood of the guests if something went wrong.

But Sherlock was confident.

He was certain that Mommy would find nothing wrong with John, that she would understand immediately that the man was his perfect match and would give them her blessing.

Otherwise, Sherlock would still continue to live his life with John by his side, but this would lead to a drastic change in his relationship with his family.

Should he have to end any relationship with her mother if she shown to be against his relationship with John for some absurd reason?

He had to admit to himself that he had not considered that eventuality and, cowardly, decided not to think about it even now because he did not have all the necessary evidences.

It was then that Emma had entered into the dining-room running, followed a few steps behind by Lestrade.

"What are you doing here?" asked Sherlock, watching her as she sat next to him.

"You promised to help me with my research, did you forget?" the little girl replied, placing her backpack on the table.

Sherlock had looked up at the inspector and found him absorbed in his own thoughts, his absent eyes fixed on Emma.

Something had happened, something that had upset Lestrade and clearly had something to do with Emma... not with Emma, with children in general.

"You're upset" he said, turning to the man.

Greg had pulled himself from his inertia and stared at him a few moments before nodding.

-Yes, but I'd beg you not to deduce it and leave me alone... I already have too many things on my mind to fight even with you-had commented Greg.

-It’s clear you had a fight with my brother…-

-Sherlock…-warned Lestrade.

-All right, all right.

If you want to continue to brood unnecessarily on your discussion by endlessly analyzing my brother’s words be my guest, but personally I think you need a higher mind-

Greg had let out to a bitter laugh.

"It’s because of a superior mind that I'm in this state, I don't think another great mind can help me solve my problem" Greg said before turning his back on him and leaving the room.

Sherlock had turned his gaze to Emma who had merely shrugged her shoulders before moving her history book towards him.

They had worked for forty minutes, combining the little knowledge Sherlock had about the French Revolution, the notions of the book, and Emma's memories, managing to put together two pages of research.

-This is my mother's house.

My house is Baker Street- answered Sherlock.

"Oh, I like that one too: no one makes chocolate cookies like Mrs. Hudson" Emma said.

Sherlock nodded distracted, busy flipping through the pages of the history book.

"Why Uncle John doesn't use his cane anymore?" the little girl asked him again.

"He doesn't need it anymore" the detective replied.

"Yes, but why?" the little girl insisted, looking up at Sherlock and forcing him to stop what he was doing and meet her eyes.

Sherlock remained silent for a few moments, wondering whether to use simpler words or tell her the truth in his direct and raw way.

"Do you know why John used the cane?" he asked her cautious.

"Because his leg was hurt, and he needed help walking" Emma said promptly.

-Technically it was his shoulder that was hurt, the pain in his leg is an imaginary pain- Sherlock instinctively corrected it.

Emma frowned, plainly confused.

The detective sighed, beginning to feel frustrated.

"Sometimes, when something very bad happens, we're very scared, and if John was a kid, when this thing happened there would have been no problems, he'd have nightmares, but over time his brain would help him forget" Sherlock explained.

From the expression on the little girl's face, however, he realized that she had not done a great job until then.

"How would you define John?" he asked her, trying to help her understand.

"He is fun" Emma promptly replied.

-Just fun? -

-Affectionate. Kind... It has a good smell-added Emma at the end, making Sherlock smile.

-Yes, it's true.

Well, I see a strong and courageous man.

A man who, despite having experienced something really bad, overcame his fears ("_his demons_") and was able, with a little help, to get rid of the symbol of his own weaknesses: the cane- concluded the detective.

Emma stared at him for a few thoughtful moments, reworking his speech in simpler words.

"So, you healed him?" she asked him, leaning slightly towards him.

Sherlock shrugged.

"We can see it this way" he replied.

Emma's gaze was still fixed on his face when, clutching her fingers around his right sleeve, she pulled him down towards her to place a kiss on his right cheek, leaving Sherlock in disbelief.

"What was this for?" he asked after clearing his throat.

"For healing Uncle John-replied Emma, again engaged with her own books.

Sherlock remained silent, not knowing what to say or do in response to that spontaneous gesture of affection.

A slight noise caught his attention and his eyes moved in the room until he met John’s and for a moment he felt breathless: no one had ever looked at him with so much love and sweetness in his eyes and Sherlock sincerely hoped to deserve it and at the same time that John could read in his gaze the same adoration.

_________________________________

An unexpected noise awoke him.

It wasn't the typical noise of a thief making a break-in.

It was not Mrs. Hudson who took advantage of the silence to leave some cookies or the morning papers.

It was a noise he had never heard and never expected to hear at 221B Baker Street.

A crying child.

Sherlock glanced at the still-sleeping form next to him and freed himself from their embrace, sitting back and grabbing his dressing gown before leaving the bedroom, the sound of that crying still in his ears.

Is it possible that a client had brought a newborn with him?

Impossible.

Mrs. Hudson would have warned him if anyone had asked to submit a case.

There were also no other noises except the baby's wail.

He entered the living room and closed the door behind him, and it was then that he saw the wicker basket on the sofa: it was creamy white, with one handle sticking out on both sides and a light wool blanket covering the small shape inside.

Next to the basket, on the couch, was a navy-blue bag.

Cautiously, as if he were afraid there was explosives inside the basket, Sherlock approached the couch and when he was a step away, he saw him: a red face, congested with tears, moved inside, waving his small fists in the air.

At that moment, almost sensing his presence the child stopped crying and two ice-blue eyes stared at him, drawing his attention.

In the brief silence that followed, Sherlock observed the strip of black hair, his cheekbones slightly protruding, despite being only a few months old and he felt his breath choke in his lungs.

_No... It's not possible..._

That's when he noticed the white envelope on the coffee table.

He quickly opened it by tearing the envelope and once he read the few words inside, he realized that everything was destroyed.

The future he had imagined, dreamed, that he had come to believe possible only twenty-four hours ago would be crushed as soon as John got up.

John would never forgive him.

With the note still in his hand, he dropped on the sofa next to the wicker basket, his fingers in his hair.

_Hamish_.

_Hamish James Holmes_.

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**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had the idea of Mr. Holmes at Bletchely Park after seeing "The Imitation Game".  
I imagined that he was one of the youngest analysts,(born in 1920) around 20-ish; so this means that he was 15 years older than Mrs.Holmes(born 1935). They met around 1953 while Mrs. Holmes was a student and got married in 1960. Mycroft was born in 1969 and Sherlock in 1976 when Mr. Holmes was 49 and 56. Mr.Holmes died when Mycroft was 25 and Sherlock was 18 at the age of 74.


	8. Take a bow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "-I could put him in foster care.  
Looking for the perfect family, which would look after him with love and he would not miss anything, making sure he will grow up like a normal child.  
But we both know he’s not a normal child.  
-He’s a Holmes."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, and the award for the best liar  
Goes to you (goes to you)  
For makin' me believe  
That you could be  
Faithful to me  
Let's hear your speech out  
(Rihanna-Take a bow)
> 
> What now, my love, now that you left me?  
How can I live through another day  
Watching my dreams turn into ashes  
And all my hopes into bits of clay?  
Once I could see, once I could feel  
Now I'm numb, I've become unreal  
I walk the night, oh, without a goal  
Stripped of my heart, my soul  
What now, my love, now that it's over?  
(Frank Sinatra-What now,my love?)

On a normal day, Mycroft Holmes' cellphone receives an average of fifty texts and twenty-nine phone calls.

On a day considered moderately stressful for the average English man, Mycroft Holmes' cellphone receives a minimum of seventy texts and fifty phone calls, wherever in the world he is.

On a critical day, both for national security and for his private life, the number of the texts and phone calls that will arrive on Mycroft Holmes cellphone will greatly exceed a number of three digits.

Always a practical person, Mycroft has a standard ringtone for every incoming call or texts, always opposed to the thousand different ringtones that distract attention and that in recent years have become a collector's item as well as stamps.

Only one person has a special ringtone.

A person so complicated that he's earned a whole secret code.

That morning, Mycroft was in the office in his apartment despite the sun still raising up, trying to catch up with work and make up for the delay that a day with his mother had provoked.

He would have been inclined to give himself a few hours' sleep if Gregory had been at home, in bed next to him, but the man had decided to return to Scotland Yard as soon as they had said goodbye to Mummy, blaming the irritation and discomfort that Mycroft’s company provoked in him on his work.

Something had happened... Something that had escaped his attention, something that had unnerved Gregory, but as much as Mycroft struggled, he could not put his finger on the problem.

The man had spent the night in the police station and, although it was not the first time he had spent sleeping at his desk, Mycroft could not help but wonder if he would come home to change clothes or if will wait until he sure to find the apartment empty.

Something was wrong... And if he didn't want Gregory to slowly and inexorably walk away from him, he had to find out what it was.

The vibration of his mobile phone on the mahogany desktop pulled him away from his thoughts and led him to cast a glance on the iPhone screen.

"_The swallow left the nest_"

Mycroft frowned and squeezed the phone between his elongated fingers, taking it a short distance from his face: attached to the text there were two pictures.

John Watson, the clothes put on in a hurry, the military bag on one shoulder, in front of the door of 221 Baker Street; the next photo depicted him moving quickly towards the subway stop not far away, his shoulders straight in the typical military pose that the British official had so often seen him during Sherlock's absence.

The thing that struck him the most was the expression on John's face: he had seen him not even twenty-four hours ago and John was smiling and affable as only the good doctor, thanks to the influence of his brother, could be.

That affability was completely gone, giving way to a clearly unexpected pain, which was compounded by a latent rage.

The expression of a man who lost everything.

Oh Sherlock...

What else had done his idiot brother?

He sent a quick text asking for more information, quickly getting up and preparing for a visit to Baker Street, worried about what he would find waiting for him, when he heard the vibration announcing the response to his questions.

An answer that once again demonstrated how ignorant his brother could be in the matters of the heart.

"_A little eagle has landed in the nest_”

________________________

**07.30 Scotland Yard HQ**

He needed to sleep.

He was tired of swallowing shoddy coffee, of the mountains of reports that seemed to perpetually clutter his desk, of the lack of professionalism of the guys on his team, Donovan and Anderson first.

At that moment he hated everything and everyone... He just wanted to be home, in his own bed and sleep for ten hours straight.

But going home meant coming face-to-face with Mycroft and he still didn't feel ready to face his partner.

With his superior mind, the man knew immediately that something was wrong, but he had accepted his silence and his lies without any more questions, perhaps frightened of what would happen by facing that conversation.

Why were Holmes men so afraid to face problems?

Ready to solve international crises within a few hours or jump into the trajectory of a gun, but when it came to their private lives, they were totally incompetent.

Greg rubbed his face with one hand and called himself an idiot for the umpteenth time.

Everything was going so well yesterday; they were having fun and for once he could relax without worrying about a sudden phone call that would end up ruining his plans.

He had finally met Emma, having heard so much about her from John and Jack and found her a cunning and interesting little girl, and was impressed with how she managed to attract the attention of the self-proclaimed sociopath number One Mr. Sherlock Holmes.

Of course, when the situation had become too intimate, Sherlock had gone and hide in one of the many rooms of the house, to reinforce his aura of grumpiness, and shortly afterwards John had been pre-empted for the usual interview that Mrs. Holmes imposed on the suitors of his children.

So, he and Mycroft had found themselves alone with Emma, busy reading one of the Harry Potter books, chatting serenely, until the little girl had raised her eyes from the volume and set them on Mycroft.

-You and Sherlock have funny names- she said.

Mycroft Holmes, accustomed to talking to politicians, heads of state, MI6 agents and crowned heads, had been speechless for a few moments after Emma's words.

-These are household names - he answered her at the end.

Emma had nodded.

"Sherlock is your only brother?" she asked then.

"Luckily yes" had been the reply.

Emma had looked at him confused.

-Why is that? Sherlock is funny-

Gregory had smiled at those words: only a child could find Sherlock funny.

Mycroft had to think the same way given the way he had thinned his lips in a clear sign of disapproval and took a deep breath.

"It’s a curious way to describe him” he replied.

-Do you always ask all these questions?" he had asked her the next moment.

“My mom says I'm too curious, but my teacher says curiosity is good. What do you think?" the little girl replied.

Mycroft had remained silent, unable to find the right answer, and that was when Greg intervened to help his partner out of that impasse.

"Hey Emma, are you hungry?" he asked.

The little girl had shaken her head, losing interest in her conversation with Mycroft and returning to her book.

Greg had smiled at his companion and laid his hand on those of his partner, in a reassuring gesture.

-All right? You seemed to be in a bit of trouble, and I thought I'd come to your aid- he said, smiling at him.

-Thank you... I can handle a meeting with heads of state ready to slit my throat without even a palpitation, but that little girl scares me a little- he admitted lowering his voice slightly so as not to be heard by Emma.

Greg had smiled again.

-She's just a little girl Myc. It could have been worse-

"Worse than that?" asked the other man unconvinced.

"She could have been a teenager" Greg said.

Mycroft had remained silent a few moments, considering his words, before making a slight nod with his head.

-Fair point-

"She seems to appreciate the company of your brother, who would have thought of that…" said Greg, looking at the little girl.

"I don't see what's so strange: my brother's emotions are stuck to that of a five-year-old, so it's logical that he's perfectly comfortable around Emma" he said.

Greg had merely mumbled to express his approval.

"Did she really scare you?" he had asked, then turning to the man.

Mycroft had sighed, clearly annoyed at being considered weak, even in front of his boyfriend.

-Of course, not...

I'm just unprepared to deal with children, Sherlock ruled out of course.

When Sherlock and I were born, our cousins were already almost all teenagers so the only company we had during our childhood was that of the other and the various nannies-

Greg had stroked the knuckles of the man's right hand with his own thumb, pervaded by an instinctive need to hold Mycroft close and make him feel his love, make him understand how things were different now, how much he was loved and indispensable.

"You get used to loneliness" Mycroft added, shrugging his shoulders in a careless gesture.

-That’s why you never thought about starting a family? -

Taking him by surprise, Mycroft had chuckled at that question, then met his eyes.

-Me? You are living proof that having a family was impossible for me, unless I went against myself- he had pointed out to him.

Trying not to misinterpret those words, Greg had shrugged his shoulders.

-Well, not anymore…- said Greg careful to not use compromising words.

-Yes, now it's even unthinkable - had quickly retorted Mycroft.

Despite his efforts, a slight anger had begun to take hold of Greg.

-What does that mean? -

-Come on, Gregory...

Two men with our responsibilities, with the risks that our work entails, can't really get carried off with this absurdity of having a family.

Moreover, given our age, when and if we end up having a child, we will both be too old to guarantee economic security, a future...

Definitely an unsuitable environment for a child- had answered in an absolute tone Mycroft.

Gregory had stared at him in silence for a few moments, unsure of what to answer until he had moved his hand from those of his partner and nodded slowly.

Luckily Emma had chosen that moment to stand up, backpack in her hands to ask him to accompany her in search of Sherlock.

Even now Greg couldn't decide what bothered him the most.

Had it been the way Mycroft had dismissed the idea?

Or the way he decided it would be just the two of them for the next 40 years without even consulting him?

Damn they were a couple; they should have talked about it together before making such important decisions about their future!

Greg had never thought of having children: partly because of the reasons Mycroft had exposed the day before, but partly because his ex-wife couldn't have any, so he had always said that it was fine, that with love they would make their marriage work.

Then the affair and the divorce had come and for a long time in his life there had been only work.

But now there was Mycroft... And the thought of building a family together wasn't as terrible as the eldest of the Holmes brothers had made it look like.

The sound of his mobile phone jolted him, and he was pulled away from his thoughts.

"Lestrade," he said, answering the phone.

For a few moments there was silence, allowing him to read the name on the screen.

_John_.

"John, is that you?" he called listening to the noises in the background.

Traffic, a busy road, a female voice recorded.

A bus...

What was John doing on a bus this early in the day? Was he headed to work for a shift at the clinic?

-Greg... I need you to do me a favor - the man finally said.

The inspector frowned, sitting in his chair; there was something that did not convince him in John's voice, something wet and croaking.

Something that awakened an unpleasant memory in his mind and that brought the detective back to a period of their life that he believed was over forever.

An idea immediately sprang to his mind, but he drove it away insistently.

-I'm listening-

"You have to go back to work with Sherlock" the doctor said.

Greg knew that request would come eventually; he was aware that sooner or later the detective would become so unbearable to annoy even the only person in the world capable of standing up to him, but he had believed that he had a few more days given the relaxed attitude of the two men the day before.

"John, you know it's not possible” he said, passing the fingers of his left hands through his short hair.

-Greg listen to me... Sher…- John said stopping to clear his voice- I'm not asking for him, but for me.

I need to know that there will be someone to check out on him-

Those words led the inspector to stand up suddenly, unable to give a name to the annoying and scary feeling that was quickly taking hold of him.

"John, where are you?" he asked.

"Promise me you'll keep an eye on him while I'm gone" the doctor asked him again, his voice steadier.

Despite the many questions that crowded into his mind, Greg took a deep breath and closed his eyes, aware that he would receive no answer.

-Listen, listen. Why don't we meet somewhere and try to...-tried Greg one last time.

-Promise me Greg! -repeated John for the umpteenth time.

Although the idea of returning to work with Sherlock did not fill him with joy, there was nothing else he could do, at least for the time being.

"I promise you" he replied.

The next moment on the other side of the phone came the sound of interrupted communication.

Moving quickly, Greg grabbed his overcoat from the chair in front of his desk, put it on and walked out of his office, heading for the elevators heedless of Donovan's voice calling his name behind him, his cell phone back against his ear looking for someone who could give him some explanation.

He had to have a long chat with Sherlock Holmes.

_________________________

**06.30 221B Baker Street**

_The first thing John _was aware _of_ _when he woke up was the absence of Sherlock in bed._

_An unusual noise had awakened him, but the silence that enveloped_ their apartment at that time_ led him to convince himself that it had been a_ _mistake._

_It probably got to his ear from the street or he must have dreamed of it._

_Now awake, despite the time, he rubbed his face with one hand and sat down, shivering slightly in the cold that the old bricks of the_ _apartment could not block_ _despite the_ _closed window; he _ _massaged his shoulder, trying to reactivate circulation in the damaged nerves and making his neck crack before standing up and grabbing the tartan _robe, _attached to the bedroom door._

_John closed the robe by the waist and left the room, yawning still sleepy._

_The first thing he saw was the tangle of black curls now so familiar popping out of the couch, all ten fingers sunk into his hair, as if Sherlock wanted to contain the chaos of_ _his__ thoughts_ _with__ his hands._

_That sight made John smile: a normal person would not be able to more advanced thoughts than the need for coffee at that time of the morning, but his partner was not like the other mere mortals._

_If he knew him at least a little, at that moment his mind was engaged in mental tangents completely alien to him and the rest of the population and that, despite everything, Sherlock considered boring._

_Maybe that's what made him even more adorable in his eyes..._

_John's smile softened at that thought, aware that Sherlock could have torn him apart with a few words if he had discovered what John was thinking at the moment, but the doctor seemed unable to control his own thoughts._

_Finally, for the first time in years, he was happy._

_All he had wished for had been offered to him on a silver platter and he only had to extend his hand to take that meter and eighty of genius, bad manners, shyness and charm that was Sherlock Holmes._

_And a new relationship, after all, it had been_ _only_ two _days, but the thought that finally that wonderful and extraordinary man was finally his, made him smile like a teenager in love for the first time._

_John stepped into the living room headed to Sherlock to wish him a good morning and start the day._

_ That's when he heard that sound again._

_A childish chatter he had heard so many times at the clinic, but who had no reason to exist_ _in their apartment._

_He took another step towards the sofa and saw it: _ _there, right next to Sherlock, there was a basket of cream-colored wicker, so far hidden from the high back of their sofa, with a child inside._

_John had always loved children; he had always thought that in an indefinite_ _future_ _he would become_ a_ father and for a few years, before leaving for Afghanistan, that possibility had not seemed very remote due to his relationship with Susan and their desire to marry and start a family._

_Then fate had decided otherwise..._

_-Hey... Look who we have here…- he said, approaching the child with an affectionate smile._

_Unsure whether to pick him up or not, but slightly frightened by the possibility that the baby might burst into tears, John decided to leave him in the basket for the moment, doing a quick medical check to make sure the baby was okay: he had to be between six and nine months old, he was chubby, but not excessively, and by the way he moved his little hands towards him he seemed very lively._

_The first thing he noticed was the black hair that instinctively reminded him of Sherlock's, despite_ _the absence of curls, leading him to glance at the detective who had not yet changed his position on the couch and seemed not to have noticed his presence._

_"You are beautiful" John said to the child, stroking his little hands with one finger._

_The little boy answered him with nonsensical babble, making him laugh._

_It was then that John noticed two things at the same time: the first was the navy-blue bag, excellently made and clearly expensive, placed next to the wicker basket, with the initials HH embroidered in white in plain sight._

_The second was something he had only seen on_ _another person... The only consultant detective in the world._

_Two icy-blue eyes stared back at him with curious eagerness._

_Continuing to caress the baby's hand, John turned to Sherlock, who had finally untangled his fingers from his curls but seemed intent on digging a hole on the floor with the force of his stare alone._

_"How come they left this child_ _here?" asked John, trying to bring him back to reality, to include him in what was going on in the apartment._

_The silence he received in response made him realize that he had asked the wrong question._

_John sighed, slightly annoyed, and attempted a new approach._

_-Okay... If it was an absurd evidence for one of your cases, you'd be out and about around the room full of nervous energy in search of possible connections- assumed John._

_Those words at least had the effect of getting to Sherlock who snapped to his feet and approached the window next to the bookstand._

_"Don't be ridiculous! "he scolded John with his back turned to the doctor._

_John remained silent for a few moments, moving his gaze between Sherlock and the child, before speaking again._

_"Do we know his name at least?" he asked, hoping that that simple question would not provoke a new fit of rage._

_Inexplicably the detective's back muscles stiffened and the next moment, Sherlock turned slightly to meet his gaze._

_There was something unusual in Sherlock's eyes, something John had never seen before: resignation._

_Since when did Sherlock Holmes, the most stubborn, most determined man in the world, let himself go to resignation?_

_-Hamish._

_His name is Hamish- finally said the detective._

_John frowned slightly, then brought his gaze back to the child._

_-Poor thing._

_He has all my solidarity- John commented, before turning his back on the two and heading towards the kitchen._

_He desperately needed a cup of tea._

_He put the kettle on and set to work to prepare two cups, Hamish's chatter still in his ears, trying to figure out why that child had arrived in their apartment._

_"Didn't they leave any letters with the baby?" he asked, looking at Sherlock, who was looking at the horizon from the window._

_There was something impalpable, something that kept whispering in the back of his mind, making his way through other thoughts to get attention, something connected with Sherlock’s weird behavior and probably also with the appearance of the child in their apartment._

_Was he the son of someone they knew?_

_If it weren't for the black hair, he might have thought he was Mycroft's son, but the man would never have left his offspring in contact with Sherlock, had it not been strictly necessary._

_John glanced again at Sherlock, the baby’s babble in his ears, and for a moment wondered if the baby was hungry, when it was the last time he ate, before that nagging feeling came back to assault him again._

_Was there something he missed?_

**"You see, but don't observe"**

_What was there to understand?_

_John sighed and pressed two fingers at the corners of his eyes, trying to calm down: it wasn't even seven o'clock in the morning and Sherlock was already unbearable._

_ Also, there was the inconvenience of solving the mysterious identity of that child and why he was there... That day was proving to be getting more and more complicated by the minute._

_He approached the child again to check that he was fine and needed nothing and at that moment his gaze fell on a rectangle of parchment paper abandoned on the floor._

_-Sherlock, I found some...- he said picking it up and starting to read the few handwritten sentences._

"**Hamish James Holmes.**

**John was right, it's a great name for a kid.**

**Take care of him. **

**I. A.**"

_John stared at those three lines for a long time, unable to take his eyes off the parchment square, and suddenly that feeling made sense._

_Black hair._

_The constant chatter synonymous with a brain always in turmoil._

_Icy-blue eyes._

_"_ **Hamish. In case you need a name for your child”**

_He was the one who gave them that idea..._

_Stupid._

_He was a poor fool to have thought even for a second that he could be happy with Sherlock_ _Holmes._

_As the note slid back to the floor badly restrained by his shaking hand, John recalled the meeting with Mycroft were the man had announced Irene's death and the need to lie to Sherlock to allow him to close the "Irene Adler" chapter._

** _"Only Sherlock Holmes could save her this time"_ **

_-Only Sherlock Holmes can save her this time... And apparently, he did –John_ _murmured._

_He moved his head slightly to meet the detective's gaze, but Sherlock continued stubbornly to stare at the view in front of him, aware that he had done something really wrong._

_Once again._

_Why did such an intelligent man keep making such bad mistakes?_

_He had just forgiven him for pretending to be dead for three years, for leaving him behind and going around the world to fight against wanted criminals and ruthless killers as he contemplated suicide and let himself go to the prohibited pleasure of drugs, and now here it is yet another lie._

_Embodied in that beautiful baby... Hamish._

_"How old is he?" he asked in a voice he did not recognize._

_-Seven months- answered Sherlock._

_At least he had deigned to answer, John found himself thinking._

_John nodded, though the other could not_ _see him, engaged in a quick calculation._

_Twenty-two months ago, while Sherlock was with Irene, he_ was _beginning__ his rehabilitation..._

_While Sherlock was busy having sex with Irene, fighting international criminals and conceiving a baby, he was fighting against the ants he felt crawling under his skin, the desire to close his eyes and sleep for three days in a row, thinking that one more pill would not hurt him, that no one would know, and looking for a sensible reason that would prevent him from jumping under the first subway train approaching the platform._

_Without adding anything else, John moved into the living room towards the stairs, headed to his bedroom, and began to dress with the first pair of jeans and button down that he found in the wardrobe._

_A myriad of thoughts run though his head, colliding with each other: he wanted to punch something, possibly Sherlock's face, he wanted to scream, but at the same time he did not want to scare the baby, and for the first time in two years he had a strong desire to throw down a few pills._

_Holding his beige sweater, the doctor paused, falling on the bed, noticing the slight tremor that had reappeared_ _in his right hand._

_Why had he been so stupid to believe that he could start something with Sherlock?_

_Was he really so desperate that he didn't realize the detective was lying to him again, or had he avoided looking at the truth just because everything finally seemed to be back to "normal"?_

_Sitting on the edge of the bed, John took his head in his hands, his fingers clenched between his blonde locks, unable to breathe deeply for a few moments, before quickly shaking his head and standing up right._

_He would not allow Sherlock Holmes to destroy his life for the umpteenth time._

_Looking around trying to reorganize his thoughts, John put on his sweater and took the old battered military bag, companion of many adventures, from under the bed, approaching the closet and taking some clothes almost blindly, then exiting the room and down the stairs again._

_The first thing John saw coming back into the living room was that Sherlock had finally walked away from the window, carefully observing his every move, following him with his eyes as he slipped his shoes on, as he stuck his wallet and cellphone in the pockets of the trousers, leaving the keys of the apartment on the desk._

_-John...-_

_-No- John stopped him with_ _a_ _firm voice._

_"I'm sorry" said Sherlock._

_At those words a bitter laugh rang out in the living room and for a brief moment their glances met: one clearly wounded, angry and disappointed, while the other genuinely confused and frightened._

_-For what?_

_What are you apologizing for Sherlock? Do you even know?_

_Or did you just say it because you know it's the right thing to say? -asked John, fingers clenched against a bag bracket._

_Sherlock remained silent, sincerely confused: what was the right answer?_

_What did he have to say to get it all back to the day before?_

_-That's what I thought…- John just said before turning his back on him and walking out of the apartment._

_Without knowing if and when he would return._

___________________________________________

**08.30 Baker Street 221B**

_You should have told me. Sh_

Although she did not reproach him, it was clear that Mrs. Hudson was not happy with Hamish's presence in the apartment.

She too, like John, at first glance had been attracted to the child starting to speaking with him in the usual child talk, but once she realized John's absence from the apartment and became aware of the child’s genetic heritage, her expression had turned into a total disapproval.

Nevertheless, she had agreed to change his diaper and give the baby his bottle only in the child's interest, aware that for the time being Hamish was not Sherlock's priority.

"The next time he's hungry, you'll have to manage on your own young man" she said before leaving the apartment going downstairs.

Sherlock watched the little one, again asleep after being changed and fed, and for a brief moment he found himself envious of his carefreeness.

Still wearing his pajamas and blue robe, Sherlock moved around the living room in a series of frantic movements as he approached the window, taking hold of the violin and then the next moment putting it back in its case and returning to sit on the couch, sending one message after another, undecided whether to send the most important text.

It had been an hour since John had left their apartment.

Soon, his brother would appear on the door of the apartment, ready to teach him a lesson on responsibilities, eventually conceding to take care of the child or to find someone more qualified to do it for them.

What was Irene thinking?

What had happened between them had been a mistake, a huge mistake that Sherlock had not been able to erase from his mind and which he had ended up cataloguing as an "experiment not to be repeated".

Despite not being the first sexual experience of his life, Irene was different from his previous “partners” ... After all, she had always been different.

A huge puzzle: the first woman to tickle his fancy after years in which his unconditional interest was focused on his work.

It was not the circumstances of their first meeting, not even the questionable fact that she had presented herself completely naked in front of him to make him uncomfortable, what had really impressed him had been her intelligence.

For a while, he had believed he had found a kindred spirit... Too bad he realized too late that his true kindred spirit, what simple minds call "soul mate" was John.

John...

Where was he right now?

The chances of him showing up at Harry's house were minimal: a forced cohabitation would do nothing but bring their differences to the surface again.

Sarah had recently found a new boyfriend and asking her for hospitality, despite their old friendship, would cause embarrassment and led to indiscreet questions that John would not willingly answer at the moment.

Lestrade was now living with Mycroft so Sherlock excluded him from the list as well as Mike who had two little girls; certainly not the right environment for John with this peculiar situation.

Had he rushed to take refuge in Jack's arms?

An unexpected anger materialized in Sherlock's stomach, at the mere thought of the two men together.

He had tried to overcome his mistrust and tried to know the man for John's sake, although it did not please him at all, but now Sherlock had become once again the villain and he was certain that Jack would take advantage of it to get John back to his bed.

The sound of his mobile phone drawn him from his thoughts, leading him to lower his gaze on the illuminated screen.

_Would you like to talk about it in front of a cup of tea? IA_

Sherlock let out a frustrated groan and was about to throw his cell phone against the wall, held back only by a new incoming message.

_He's a quiet kid. He didn't pick up from either of us. IA_

This was able to see it for himself; he didn't need her help!

Since his arrival, Hamish had done nothing but chat to himself to keep himself company, eat and sleep.

Excluding the crying that he had announced his presence in the apartment he no longer shed a tear, although Sherlock was convinced that that record would be broken as soon as his brother made an appearance.

Almost summoned by his thoughts, the downstairs door opened and, from the brief conversation that Sherlock heard, the man understood that the British Government had come to meet his nephew.

Standing up, Sherlock settled in his own chair, his legs in a graceful pose and for an instant wondered whether to take the violin in his hands and torture Mycroft with awkward and annoying sounds, but then remembered that Hamish was asleep and changed his mind.

Moments later the door of the apartment opened and Mycroft, perfectly comfortable in one of his three-piece suits, appeared on the doorstep.

The two brothers stared for a few moments, gazing into each other's faces to read as much information as possible: in that very short period of time, Sherlock was able to find out that Lestrade had not returned home the previous evening, preferring to stay at the police station, that the problem visible on the inspector's face was absent on his brother's face, giving him reason to believe that, although he was aware that there was something strange, he had not yet managed to understand what it was; that the news of Hamish had caught him by surprise too, but at the same time, Mycroft was curious to make the acquaintance of the new member of the Holmes family.

Finally, before he showed up at Baker Street, he had checked John's movements, making sure that the man was safe and sound, and that there was someone with him to help him get through that situation.

For his part, Mycroft was surprised by the myriad of emotions that passed on Sherlock's face for once devoid of the usual mask of indifference: there was surprise at that unexpected discovery, the anger at being deceived and also anger at himself for letting being deceived once more (_Oh... Of course, Irene, could not have been anyone else...),_ concern for John's absence, but above all clear and blatant on the young man's face there was the same expression that Mycroft had seen only an hour earlier on John's face pictured.

The expression of a man who had lost everything.

Without speaking, Mycroft walked to the couch and look at the child for a few moments, before raising his eyes and meeting Sherlock's.

"He looks like you" he said, sitting comfortably in John's chair.

Sherlock remained silent, weaving his long fingers at the height of his stomach, in an unusual but hopeful pose that he hoped would convey confidence.

"Mommy will be happy to know that at least one of us has carried on the family's name" the British official said.

"Where is John? “asked Sherlock, unable to hold back any longer.

He had to know if his suspicions were correct, if it really took so little for John to return to seek solace in Jack's arms.

He needed to know before he could focus on the rest...

Interpreting the meaning hidden behind his question Mycroft allowed himself a slight smile clearly amused.

-Aldershot. He took the first train from Waterloo station.

I think by this time he will have already arrived at his destination- Mycroft informed him.

Aldershot.

How did he not think about it before? John was born there, and his father still lived in the small town, it was normal that he sought comfort in his family, away from London.

Away from him...

"Did you know of the child's existence? “asked Mycroft, interrupting his thoughts.

Sherlock merely groaned.

-After all, even an inexperienced man like you should have known that there was this possibility... If we think about your impeccable taste in choosing the mother...-added Mycroft relentless.

"I didn't know" Sherlock answered through his teeth, clearly annoyed.

Mycroft remained silent, turning his gaze to the wicker basket, where unaware of what was going on around him, baby Holmes continued to sleep blissful.

Letting go of his umbrella against his right armrest, Mycroft stood up and approached the basket, leaning slightly over it carrying both hands to the child's side, slowly lifting him still wrapped in the white blanket and laying him against his left shoulder, meeting Sherlock's incredulous gaze.

The last time he had picked up such a small baby was when he was a child as well, when at the age of seven his mother had brought Sherlock home from the hospital and they had meet for the first time; he still remembered the fear of holding such a small bundle in his plump arms, fearing that he might hurt him in any way, even involuntarily.

He recalled the peculiar smell he had smelled in Sherlock's inexplicably fluffy hair, and how he understood his responsibility to that child for the first time, the need to protect him and keep him safe at all costs.

Even though Sherlock had gone out of his way to make things difficult for him...

Mycroft looked down at the sleeping child in his arms and returned to sit, settling the baby’s head against his shoulder and the little boy's slightly folded legs on his thighs, allowing himself one last smile before returning to meet Sherlock's gaze.

"What name did Irene choose?" he asked.

"Hamish” answered the black-haired man, trying to hide his amazement at the sight that was before him.

If what his eyes were showing was really happening, hell was starting to freeze...

Mycroft tilted his head slightly to one side, unhappy with the choice.

"Hamish James Holmes" said the other man again.

-Typical of Irene... She may have interpreted it as a joke because of the animosity that has always accompanied Moriarty's relationship with John- Mycroft said.

Or a tribute to two great minds, Sherlock thought, but kept his thoughts to himself.

"What are you going to do?" Sherlock asked instead.

That situation had to be resolved as soon as possible and the way Sherlock saw it sooner that child was gone from Baker Street, greater the chances of being forgiven by John were.

The British official looked at him, remaining silent, waiting for more information.

Sherlock sighed in frustration.

-Do you already have someone in mind who can take care of him? -

A wry smile appeared on the lips of older Holmes, leading him to cast a new glance at the little one perched on his shoulder.

"Why not his father?" he asked.

An expression of scorn appeared on Sherlock's face, before the detective quickly shook his head, moving the rebellious curls in an improvised choreography.

-Come on Mycroft...

You know as well as I that I am not even able to take care of myself, how do you think I could take care of Hamish? -he asked his brother in the same tone that he used to reason with Anderson.

-When are you going to start?

You're thirty-seven years old Sherlock, and I think this kid is the stimulus you needed to make order in your life.

Irene entrusted him to you because you're the only one who can relate to him- Mycroft said.

Sherlock shook his head once more, rising to his feet, again full of nervous energy.

Just then the sound of footsteps on the stairs led the two men to look towards the door left open by Mycroft where, the next moment the figure of Greg Lestrade materialized.

The first person on whom his eyes rested was Sherlock.

"What the hell have you done this time?” he asked clearly upset as he advanced into the living room with a firm glare.

It was only when he found himself in the center of the living room that his peripheral vision recorded Mycroft's presence in the flat; what left him winded was the bundle in Mycroft’s arms.

Even later, after analyzing the situation calmly and rationally, Gregory Lestrade would have been unable to understand if what had surprised him the most was the child peacefully asleep in his boyfriend’s arms or Mycroft, perfectly comfortable with a little baby in his arms.

Unable to take his eyes off the couple, Greg lingered with his eyes for a few moments, wondering why the universe was ganging up on him like that, putting in front of his eyes a concrete evidence that his partner would be a perfect father, just as his head continued to wreak havoc because of that unexpected and forbidden desire.

As usual, it was Sherlock's voice that got him back to the present.

-Oh...-

That little sound was enough for Greg to see that the detective had put all the pieces together and understood what was disturbing him.

He had to stop it before that brilliant idiot opened his mouth and put his thoughts out in the open...

"Shut up Sherlock!" he admonished him staring at the detective with a thunderous glare.

The two men stared at each other for a few seconds until Sherlock gave him a slight nod.

"What the hell did you do this time?" asked again Greg, looking at the child who had begun to move under the blanket that was enveloping him.

"I don't understand why it's so easy for you to blame me for what's going on.""

-Are you telling me that I’m wrong? That this child's appearance and John's disappearance are not connected? -the inspector asked him.

"I didn't know!" repeated Sherlock for the umpteenth time, raising his voice slightly, provoking a sound of protest from Hamish.

-You have to learn to control your temper, little brother... You're a dad now-comment Mycroft stroking the baby's back.

Increasingly annoyed by the situation, Sherlock approached the kitchen, in desperate need of tea, but the sight of the two cups left half done on the kitchen counter just where John had abandoned them forced him to turn back, stopping next to the fireplace.

" You didn't know what you were doing, or you didn't know you were a father?" asked Greg.

"Now you're getting annoying on purpose – remarked Sherlock.

-Or do you think my great intelligence doesn't understand the reproductive process?" he asked then looking up at the man.

"Who's the mother?" asked Greg again, genuinely curious, sitting on the right armrest of the couch.

-She’s not important at the moment-

Although John had never mentioned names in the past three years, there had been a few occasions, soon after the doctor coming out, always helped by alcohol, in which the man had told Greg that one of his greatest regrets, united to not being able to recognize his feelings for Sherlock sooner, was that he had not been able to attract Sherlock’s attention as "_The Woman_”.

_Sherlock would have gone out of his way to have her... And she broke his heart._

Of course, John had told him that this mysterious woman had died, but given Sherlock's presence in the living room, it was not hard to imagine that even this mysterious woman had somehow escaped the Reaper.

-You bloody idiot! She’s the mother, isn’t she?

The woman- said as he began to see clear in that situation.

Sherlock frowned.

-John told you about Irene...-

-It doesn’t matter now... What's his name?" Greg asked as he returned to lay his eyes on Mycroft and the baby.

The little one, now perfectly awake, was busy moving his chubby fingers on Mycroft’s face who seemed happy to get slapped.

Greg needed just a glance to notice all the resemblances between Sherlock and the child, and for a moment he felt sorry for John: not only had he had to find out that his partner had cheated on him, but now there was a living and breathing proof of that infidelity.

A little miniature Sherlock...

-Hamish-answered Sherlock.

"Ah Sherlock, that's really petty" Greg scolded him, looking back at the detective.

"It wasn't my choice!" the man defended himself.

Although, if he had to be completely honest with himself, Sherlock would have chosen the same name.

For a few moments the room was silent, interrupted only at times by Hamish's cheerful chatter, until Greg let go of a deep breath.

"Now what do we do?" he asked without addressing neither of the two Holmes.

Mycroft met his gaze for the second time since entering the apartment.

"Now Sherlock will take care of Hamish and I will make sure that he has everything he needs to...- began the British official.

"Now my priority is to talk to John!" the detective began walking back and forth in free space between the coffee table and the couch.

-I don't think that's a good idea at the moment; when he called me this morning...-

-Did you talk to John? What were you waiting to tell me? -Sherlock exploded, clearly frustrated.

The unexpected volume of the man's voice surprised Hamish, who held his hands a few seconds away from Mycroft's face, before his face turned into a disgruntled expression, on the verge of tears.

-Damn it Sherlock! Will you try and control yourself?" said Mycroft, berating his brother, hurrying to comfort the child.

Not at all troubled by the fierce expression on Sherlock's face, Greg nodded.

"It was a short conversation, barely two minutes" he explained.

"In two minutes, I would have been able to understand even the color of his shoes” Sherlock retorted, continuing to walk back and forth.

"We are all aware of your deductive superiority, but I also have my skills, otherwise why do you think I ran here to lecture you?" Greg asked.

-Don't ask me stupid questions, you know you wouldn't like the answer...

What did he tell you? -asked Sherlock, sincerely curious.

Greg stared at him for a moment before shrugging his shoulders.

-He asked me to start working with you again" Greg explained.

A dubious expression manifested itself on Sherlock’s face, lit up moments later when the situation became clear in his mind.

-Oh...-

Despite everything, John hadn't stopped worrying about him...

-Yeah... He made me promise that I would keep an eye on you during his absence, and that I would let you back on Scotland Yard's cases.

But he didn't specify how long he'd be away, and I didn't ask him.

It was like I was talking to myself…-commented Greg.

Sherlock nodded slowly, lost in his thoughts allowing Greg to cast a glance at his partner, still completely focused on Hamish.

Observing the way he interacted with the child, the way he stroked his little hands, or even the serious nod with which he seemed to agree to every word of the little one, Greg wondered once again why Mycroft had decided categorically not to have a family.

"What do we do now?" he asked once again not addressing anyone in particular.

-Anthea is already at work so Hamish’s necessities will be delivered here...-began Mycroft.

"You're really not going to change your mind, are you, dear brother?"

Mycroft remained silent for a few moments, moving his gaze between Hamish and Sherlock.

-I could put him in foster care.

Looking for the perfect family, which would look after him with love and he would not miss anything, making sure he will grow up like a normal child.

But we both know he’s not a normal child-said Mycroft in a pokerfaced voice.

Sherlock stood in front of the window, his shoulders at the two men, obviously focused on his brother's words.

-He’s a Holmes.

He will start walking before he turns one year old and speak properly in the upcoming months.

When the time comes to go to kindergarten, his intelligence will already be on par with a six-year-old and this will cause him many disadvantages in relating to others.

Did you forget what you were like when you were six years old Sherlock? -asked Mycroft, clearly determined not to lose that battle.

The detective shook his head, distancing himself from those unpleasant thoughts that despite the years he had never been able to completely erase.

-Besides, he’s your son...-commented almost as an afterthought Mycroft.

"What’s that supposed to mean?" asked Sherlock as he turned around to meet his brother's gaze.

The other did not answer, merely staring back at his brother for a few seconds, before Sherlock let go of an angry sound and turned his back again, his eyes on the road.

At thirty-seven, Sherlock was able to somewhat control his own deductions, slightly aware of the impact that certain revelations could have on the life of the person he had brilliantly deducted.

At the age of six, however, he was totally unable to handle the situation: from his point of view, the people subjected to his "scrutiny" had to be grateful to him for the revelations that he discovered with a single glance.

But, of course, no one was happy to see their secrets revealed in front of strangers, especially from a six-year-old.

Was he really willing to let someone else endure the same bullying and mistreatment he suffered during his childhood because of ignorant children frightened by his superior intelligence?

Would he really send Hamish away, erasing his memory from his Mind Palace, when he was aware that he was the only person who could help him find his way and express his potential to the fullest?

Irene had acted behind his back, had turned his life upside down once again, just now that everything seemed to be going well, but Sherlock could clearly see the pattern behind that choice: the desire to give Hamish the best tools to become a great man, as any mother would have done.

And, despite their many flaws, nothing was better than the Holmes family.

There was no other solution.

Without speaking, he turned back to Mycroft, met his gaze and nodded.

Hamish was officially part of the family.

_____________________________

**Aldershot 2 p.m.**

Coming home had always seemed to him a return to his childhood, to his mother's affection and excessive attentions and to the good-natured smile and the ready and never malicious humor of his father, the hours passed in front of the driveway of the house on his second-hand bike to learn how to ride it without the small safety wheels.

A small cocoon of love and serenity that had been severely affected by Harriet's coming out: Elisabeth, their mother, had spent months wondering what she had done wrong to provoke a change so radical in her only daughter, but slowly and mostly thanks to Clara's help, the wonderful Clara, had managed to come to terms with the novelty and above all to accept her and her daughter.

Although Harry painted him as the model son that all moms dreamed of, John had also caused his amount of displeasure first due to some brawl as a teenage boy and then with his decision to join the army.

Even then, while his father had peacefully accepted his choice, despite his concern and many reservations, his mother had spent two days crying every time she laid eyes on him, trying to make him feel guilty enough to change his mind, but with no results.

Years had passed and many things had happened: his mother had died, Harry had let herself go into the chasm of alcoholism, ruining her marriage to Clara and jeopardizing his own career as a lawyer, John had been injured in Afghanistan and had been sent home with honor and, although five years earlier he had not wanted to impose his presence in his father's house, he now desperately needed to return home.

The only place in the world where, he would always be welcomed with open arms.

When he arrived at the station, he had taken a cab and within minutes he had found himself in front of the red door, with slightly discolored paint, which had always wished him well back home.

He knocked twice on the frosted glass in the middle of the door and waited; a few moments later the door opened showing the solid and reassuring figure of his father.

John stood still for a few moments, looking at the man in front of him: Hamish George Watson was a 65-year-old man with blond hair now completely gray, John's nose under Harry's eyes and a figure who, despite his advanced age, for John was still synonymous with safety and strength.

He was born immediately after the war and as a child had to learn to look after himself and his brother William.

As soon as he reached legal age, he had entered the kitchens of a restaurant, as a dishwasher, learning over time how to move in a big and professional kitchen.

He worked as a cook for thirty-five years, before applying for early retirement in order to stay beside his wife, suddenly ill.

It was his father who looked after him when he left the hospital in the months after Sherlock's death, moving for two months at Baker Street, moving around Sherlock's personal belongings, never asking John to get rid of them.

It was his father who confronted him when his problem with narcotics had become impossible to ignore and John was sure that it was also his father that had texted Sherlock the night of his meeting at Anonymous Addicted.

When John had called him from Waterloo station that morning to inform him that he would be home for a few days, the man had not asked questions and with a little bit of luck he would not do so for a few days before forcing him to talk.

"Hi dad" John said, smiling a little embarrassed.

Mr. Watson allowed himself an additional moment to look at his son's face before stepping aside and letting him into the house.

-Son…- greeted him in return as he closed the front door.

Coming home meant stepping into the past.

Nothing had changed in the last seventeen years: the furniture was the same his parents had bought together, the knick-knacks everywhere on the furniture showed his mother's decidedly questionable love for ceramic figurines, the photographs on the walls told forty years of life together between joys and sorrows.

Looking at a photo of his smiling parents, John felt a knot in his throat...

Would Baker Street also become like this after years of living together?

He turned away from those thoughts and dropped the bag next to the couch, meeting his father's gaze again.

"There's hot water if you fancy a cup" the man said.

John nodded.

-I opened the windows in your old room, but I avoided changing the sheets so as not to make unpleasant discoveries...-comment the old man, managing to snatch a smile from John.

Like all teenagers, there had been a time in his life when John could not stop thinking about sex, and the pleasure that could come from it; many nights were spent in the silence and comfort of his bed dreaming and with the sole help of his hand to soothe the pressure that seemed to have taken hold of him.

Unfortunately, like many teenagers before him, John had also been caught by his parents.

The only good thing, if he could have defined it that way, would have been getting caught by his father.

The embarrassment had been enormous, but there had been no mortifying discussion as to why he felt the need to masturbate, as would have happen with her mother.

"Do you want to have breakfast?" the elderly man asked him again.

-I'm not hungry. I think I'm going to lie down for a few hours if it's okay for you-John said.

The man shrugged.

"I'm not going to change my plans because you got into a fight with your boyfriend" his father said.

John lowered his head, nodding slowly, avoiding retorting.

The sound of footsteps moving away led him to look up, discovering himself alone in the living room.

“Your sister called: she said she's going to come over to see you once she's done at work" his father said from the hallway.

John joined him, watching him put on his coat, a confused expression on his face.

-Why will she do that? Aldershot is an hour and a half from London-

His father merely shrugged his shoulders, holding John’s stare.

"Watsons stick together" he simply replied.

\- See you later.

Try not to finish all my jam! - he said, turning his back on John and opening the door.

Finally alone John returned to the living room, looking at the photographs on the walls almost in search of an answer.

His gaze lingered several times on the figure of his mother, missing her and above all desperately in need of her embrace and the huge amount of cakes she prepared whenever there was a problem.

_Nothing helps you think about your problems like getting busy in the kitchen Johnny_, her mother used to say.

Too bad nor he nor Harry had inherited their parents' cooking talent.

Placing the rucksack on one shoulder, he walked out of the living room and walked to the stairs heading upstairs.

His room was always the first door at the top of the stairs, right next to Harry's and to the right of the bathroom; a few feet away, just down the hall was his parents' room.

John suspected that there, as well as downstairs, few changes had occurred, and he had confirmation as he opened the door of the room: the last time he had slept there had been the night before his departure for the training camp, almost twenty-five years earlier.

The bed was still set against a wall, to the right of the three-drawer dresser that had always contained his clothes and in front of the desk with the expected lamp, his companion of many nights spent studying.

Old trophies won thanks to rugby matches were neatly placed on the shelves of fake wood and the walls were still covered with posters of rock bands and Doctor Who.

John was certain that if he checked under the mattress, he would still find the pornographic magazines he used to hide there as a teenager.

He closed the door behind him and dropped the military bag next to his desk before throwing himself face down on the bed.

For a long moment he stood still, inhaling the old smell of lavender that he had always connected with his parents' sheets.

He closed his eyes and for the first time since the Baker Street door was closed behind him, John allowed his brain to reflect on what had happened that morning: Sherlock had a son.

Sherlock Holmes, the man able to hide his feelings behind a mask, to erased them from his Mind Palace like they were "defective data", had a son.

A black-haired, ice-blue-eyed child who will grew up to be the exact copy of the consultant detective...

John sighed and passed a hand over his face, trying to put order in the chaos that was in his mind.

It was incredible how everything had changed in twenty-four hours!

The day before he had met Mummy Holmes and had confessed to her his intention to spend the rest of his life with Sherlock, while now all he could think about was that Irene Adler's son was in "their" living room placidly asleep.

Once again Irene had managed to turn their lives upside down.

Perfectly honest with himself, John admitted that much of his problem with the child was the mother: if Sherlock had had a meaningless relationship, or a one night stand, while he was busy killing criminals around the world, he would not have felt all that grudge against the detective.

But Sherlock had put Irene first.

He had done so when he had looked him in the eye and pretended to believe his lie, and he had done so again when he turned to her during his absence.

John took a deep breath and tried to control the anger he felt growing within himself.

If only Sherlock had been sincere...

** _If only I'd trusted my instincts._ **

That night when Sherlock had finally told him what had happened during his absence, John had only needed a glance to know that the detective had omitted something, but for the first time that night they had managed to speak as they used to do, without tense silences or without arguing as was the case too often since Sherlock’s return, so he preferred not to investigate further hoping that what he did not know would not have consequences.

As always, when it came to Sherlock Holmes, he had to think again... And now once again he was lost.

What was he supposed to do?

Did he have to put an end to their working and personal relationship?

Was he supposed to close five years, no eighteen months of life in common, now that he was one step away from getting everything he wanted?

Leaving Sherlock meant finding a new apartment, giving up the eventful and without a moment of boredom life that he had always lived with the detective; it meant renounced his friendship with Greg because he was now in a relationship with Mycroft Holmes, and especially because Sherlock considered the inspector as a fundamental father figure in his life.

On the other hand, he could try to swallow his pride and accept that child... After all, little Hamish had no fault, he did not ask to have for mother one of the most petty and elusive persons in the world.

Accepting Hamish, however, would have meant accepting Sherlock's betrayal and not the betrayal of their newborn couple, but of his trust and the bond of friendship that had united them from the beginning.

Snuggling up in the fetal position, John tried to clear his mind of those unanswered questions and stared at the wall for a few moments before closing his eyes again, one last thought running through his mind.

Any decision he would made would not be easy to reach...

When he opened his eyes again, the first thing he noticed was the change of light in the room, now considerably diminished leaving the room wrapped in a semi-darkness.

He must have fallen asleep despite the chaos that raged in his mind.

The second thing he realized after a few moments was the figure sitting on his bed in the dim light that he would easily have mistaken for Sherlock had it not been for the Fifth Doctor's face staring at him from the wall.

It was absurd to think as it used to be, before living together with Sherlock, the mere idea of a stranger in his room would make him attentive and responsive in a few seconds, the gun already clenched between his fingers.

"How much did I sleep?" he asked to the vaguely familiar shade.

"Enough" Harry replied.

John stretched himself, tearing a groan from his lips for the atrophied muscles of his shoulder, before sitting down, giving his sister a glimpse. 

He and Harry had never been on good terms: ever since they were children, his sister had taken advantage of the few years of difference between them to treat him like her little slave until John was old enough to rebel.

By adolescence things had gotten worse, especially after Harry came out: John had elected himself as his sister's defender against bullies and homophobes, despite being aware that Harry was able to defend herself, often finding himself with the signs of the last brawl clearly evident on his face.

Only thanks to Clara, the two brothers had reconnected and then lost again due the divorce and Harry’s alcoholism, but especially Sherlock that Harry saw as a leech who took advantage of John's goodness of soul.

But it was thanks to Sherlock and The Fall that they returned on friendly terms, during the dark months of John’s emotional and physical breakdown.

Trying to help his brother, Harry had begun the recovery program to stop drinking and had pushed John to do the same, turning it into a competition.

** _If I can do it, you can do it too..._ **

And she was right.

Despite the signs that years of alcohol abuse had left on her face and, surely, on her body, Harriet Watson hadn't touched a drop of alcohol in almost two years.

"Would you like a drink?" the woman asked.

John rubbed his hand on his still sleepy face and nodded, following her the next moment out of the room and down the stairs.

"Where's Daddy?" he asked her once in the kitchen, helping her prepare the tea.

"Every Wednesday he meets with his friends from the "Chess Circle" and they have dinner together afterwards" Harry said, pouring hot water into the cups.

John raised an eyebrow.

-Since when has Dad been playing chess? -

-He needed a hobby after mom died. The choice was narrow: either chess or gardening- said the woman, opening the pantry and pulling out a box of chocolate Digestive.

-So, he chose chess-

"No, he chose both" Harry said with an amused smile.

John chuckled, an image of his father covered in patches of grass and mud clear in his mind.

The two brothers returned to the living room and sat opposite each other on the couch, sipping their tea in the silence of the room for a few moments.

-What happened John?

It must be something serious, otherwise you wouldn't have left your apartment-asked Harry, looking at him cautiously.

The man shook his head.

"I don't want to talk about it" he said.

"So, we have to pretend that you just needed to spend time at home, see dad and all that bullshit?" retorted Harry clearly unconvinced.

John shrugged.

-At least for now-

Harry let the silence fall again into the living room and focused on her drink, stealing a couple of biscuits from the saucer in the middle of the table.

"I have a new girlfriend" she announced suddenly.

John met her gaze, slightly surprised: since her divorce from Clara had become official, Harry had shown no interest in dating again.

"I didn't know you were looking for a new girlfriend” said John good-natured.

-Neither did I.

I didn't even tell Dad; you know how fond he was of Clara-

"Right, because I couldn't stand her" said John wryly.

When the two women had separated, contrary to the common convention, John sided with Clara, using his intercontinental phone call a week during the first few months to prove to her that despite being in the middle of the desert he was on her side during the messy divorce and that he still loved her.

"Oh, shut up, I'm trying to make you part of my life" his sister scolded him.

-Sorry, go ahead-

Harry took a deep breath and met his gaze before starting to speak again.

-Her name is Amanda.

She works in my law firm, and she's a lawyer, too.

A few months ago, some associates of the firm went for a drink to maintain good relations between colleagues... Don't look at me like that, I drank a ginger ale like a pregnant woman! - she said at once, noticing the change of expression in John's eyes.

The man smiled amusedly and brought his attention back to his own cup.

-Anyway... That night we talked a lot and found that we had a lot in common, so we exchanged phone numbers and a few days later we met outside of work-concluded Harry, a pleasant smile on the lips.

John smiled back, before bringing the cup closer to his mouth.

"Have you had sex yet?" he asked before taking a new sip.

-John! Do you really think I would tell something like this to my little brother? -she replied, pretending to be scandalized.

The man laughed.

-If I remember correctly, you've already done it... With all your ex-girlfriends- he pointed out by raising an eyebrow in a cheeky manner.

John had always had luck with the ladies, partly because of his charm and gentle manners, but partly thanks to Harry's tales: knowing what worked for his sister put him in an advantageous position, making him aware of what aroused a girl and what did not work.

"It didn't bring me much luck" Harry said in the same tongue-in-cheek tone.

-Are you saying it's my fault that your relationships ended badly? -

Harry gave him a beaming smile.

-Of course, darling-

Their years living together during adolescence had made them masters in the art of camouflage: they were very good at exchanging insults as if they were compliments, adding to the performance a dazzling smile to avoid incurring the reproaches of their parents.

John sighed and shook his head.

-Anyway... I don't want to brag, so all I'm going to say is that something happened, and it was really great- confessed Harry.

"It's a good thing you didn't want to brag about it" John said snickering.

-Will you be together long enough so that I can meet this sex goddess? – added John with the same beaming smile Harry had gave him just few moments before.

"You always look at the bright side of life, don't you, Johnny?" she asked sarcastically.

Those words managed to shatter the playful atmosphere that the two brothers had created, bringing John back to the present and reminding him why he was there and not in Baker Street.

-I used to... At least until this morning- mumbled the man.

Once again, the silence fell in the living room as the two brothers focused their attention on the cups they still clasped between their fingers, despite being half empty and lukewarm, until Harry spoke again.

In those short minutes, John wondered what was going on in Baker Street: was the child still there, or had Sherlock found a way to entrust him to someone?

Was he able to contact Irene and returned Hamish to her, like a postal parcel?

Or, the little one was still there entrusted to Mrs. Hudson's loving care?

Since interrupting the phone call with Greg that morning, he had turned off his cell phone, well aware that Sherlock would storm his number with texts to get his attention and force him to talk.

"Are you ready to tell me what happened?" she asked.

"You're not really going to let it go, are you?" asked John, pulling himself away from his thoughts.

The woman merely shook her head.

John sighed and leaned slightly forward to lay the cup on the coffee table.

\- A few years ago, before Sherlock disappeared, we ran into someone during a case... A woman.

Her name was Irene.

She was a Dominatrix and was the only human being to get Sherlock Holmes' attention beyond James Moriarty.

During our investigation she died, or at least staged her death and for months Sherlock was simply miserable...-said John, leaving the sentence in half.

John still perfectly remembered the endless violin sessions, the sad, tear-jerking notes the detective had pulled out of the instrument.

-Sometime later she reappeared, asking for our help again... I don't know what happened between them, but once again she disappeared, leaving him with a broken heart.

"Did they slept together?" asked Harry, her gaze fixed on his face.

John avoided answering the question and continued his story.

-A few months later, Sherlock's brother told me that Irene had died, this time for real, and that for Sherlock’s sake we should lie to him and tell him that she was in the United States in the witness protection program.

To close forever that chapter of his life.

So, I went back home and lied to him, sincerely convinced that it was the right thing to do, for Sherlock and also for me, to finally get rid of that woman-concluded the man.

"What happened instead?"

John let go a frustrated breath through his slightly open lips and rubbed his eyes with the fingers of one hand.

-Oh God... I need a whiskey! -

"Help yourself" the woman replied.

John shook his head.

"I would never do that" he responded, meeting her eyes.

"You're not answering my question Johnny!" she pointed out.

"Because it's not easy!" replied John, raising his voice slightly.

Harry stared at him for a few moments, noticing the marks plowing around the man's face, the troubled air so unusual for his brother that hadn’t left John for a moment since they had sat on the couch.

Something serious must have happened to afflict John like that.

"What was this Irene like?" she asked instead.

-She was... beautiful.

And clever… perhaps too clever, even for her own safety.

I wanted to sleep with her myself the first time I saw her!

We had prepared an elaborate plan not to be discovered, but when we came face to face with her, Irene knew perfectly well who we were and welcomed us completely naked, trying to make Sherlock uncomfortable.

It was hard not to look at her breasts...-he confessed sincere.

Harry chuckled.

"Did they have an affair at the time?" he asked.

John shrugged.

-I don't know... I really don't know.

Sherlock has always been mysterious about it, even though...-

** _"Until you beg for mercy twice..."_ **

The man shook his head.

-Why is this woman suddenly important?

I thought you two were finally a couple-said Harry.

John took a deep breath, aware that it was now impossible to continue to escape reality.

"Because" he said, meeting Harriet's gaze “this woman is the mother of his son-revealed John.

An incredulous expression immediately appeared on his sister's face; her mouth wide open in shock.

"What?" she asked when she recovered slightly.

-Irene had been sentenced to death in Iran and he went to save her from death.

During the three years of his disappearance, they met again and had a baby... And now this kid is in our apartment on Baker Street.

His name is Hamish- added.

"Are you fucking kidding me?" asked Harry raising a little her voice.

"Do I look like I’m kidding?" asked John trying to control his temper.

Harry stared at him for a few moments, the same shocked expression still painted on her face.

She had thought of many possibilities, except this... A baby.

It was unthinkable that Sherlock Holmes had become a father!

-Fuck! - she said.

John nodded slowly, rising to his feet and heading to the cupboard where the whiskey was stored.

"What are you going to do now?" Harry asked. - What did you do? –

John shrugged his shoulders.

-I didn't say anything, mostly not to scare the baby.

I packed my bag and came here- said pouring himself a double whiskey.

For the umpteenth time the room was shrouded in silence, while John let himself be enveloped by the heat that every sip of whiskey blew up from his throat to his stomach and Harriet searched for the right words to continue the subject.

-If Clara...-began John, snapping the woman's gaze on his shoulders.

-If Clara had a baby during your separation, then come back to you and ask you to forgive her... Would you had done it? -asked John turning around and meeting his sister’s eyes.

Harry remained silent for a few seconds, reflecting on the question.

-It’s different, Johnny's... If I'd let her, she'd had been with me even in the worst of times, but I couldn't ruin her life like I was ruining mine.

I was a horrible person back then and she had the worst of me-answered Harry earnest.

John returned to sit on the sofa, a short distance from his sister, making her feel his understanding but without taking her hand, aware that Harry would close off instantly.

-I think I would have forgiven her.

I think I would have accepted the baby and raised him as if it had been mine too, because that would have been my twisted way of saying "_I'm sorry for all the shit you had to put up with because of me."_

But your situation is different...-

John lowered his head, staring at his right hand abandoned in his lap, feeling suddenly tired.

-I don't know what to do.

I don't know if this time I'll be able to go back-

_________________________________

**221B BAKER STREET 6 pm**

Molly was fascinated by Hamish too.

She just needed to look at the child once and her eyes had sparkled, like she found herself in front of a new corpse to analyzed.

Not even an hour after Mycroft's departure, Anthea and two minions had delivered what could be considered an annual supply of diapers, milk powder, Johnson oil, Vaseline cream combined with a wardrobe that the woman estimated would be enough for the next few months, with a crib, a pram and some guide books for new parents.

Before leaving, Anthea had glanced at Hamish and smiled, as if she wanted to give her approval.

Aware of his ignorance of the matter, Sherlock had asked for help from the only person who, besides John and Mrs. Hudson, could have been really helpful in that situation.

When Molly finally showed up at the apartment, Sherlock had to suffer again that look of reproach that had accompanied him all day every time John was mentioned, but the next moment Molly was totally bewitched by Hamish.

"You're staring at me again" Sherlock informed her without looking.

They were in the living room, Sherlock sitting in his chair and Molly on the couch with Hamish on her lap and it was impossible not to notice the careful looks that she addressed to him every two minutes before returning to take care of the child.

Sherlock heard Molly smile and turned his head towards her, meeting her gaze.

-Do you blame me?

The old me would have been devastated by this child- commented Molly.

"The old Molly so clearly in love with me?" asked him, without malice in his voice.

-Don't be rude Sherlock...-she kindly scolded him.

-Don't forget I'm here to help you.

How about starting with the basics? -she asked him standing up, Hamish clasped in her arms.

The detective sighed, clearly unhappy with the situation, but stood up as well, following the woman into the kitchen.

"Is this sink clean?" she asked.

The man merely nodded, recalling John's insistence on having at least a few meters in the kitchen completely free of bacteria, cultures and pathogens where he could cook without fear.

In the next hour Molly showed him the "bases".

She began by showing him what measures were needed to make a baby's bath perfect, how much soap to use, what was the right way to support Hamish during the bath, how to wash his hair avoiding to send foam into his eyes, repeating the same explanation several times without getting tired and encouraging him when she saw him fearful or hesitant.

Then she showed him how to dry and hydrate Hamish’s skin with the Vaseline cream and above all, she showed him how to put a diaper on, but without closing it completely, letting him have a try.

Perhaps thanks to beginner's luck or superior intellect, Sherlock had no problem performing that task, receiving a satisfied smile as a reward.

-I don't understand what's so hard. It's pretty obvious what the back is and what the front is - commented the detective, causing the young woman to giggle.

When Hamish was relaxed and in clean clothes, Molly showed him how to prepare the bottle, the exact doses of milk powder and water, how to check the actual temperature of the drink on his wrist to prevent the baby from starting to scream out loud because of too hot milk.

When the bottle was ready, Sherlock handed it to Molly, who had kept Hamish in her arms during the preparation, to make the baby eat.

"Have you ever held Hamish since he arrived?" asked the woman, a thoughtful expression on her face.

Sherlock shook his head.

"No, I didn't want to be contaminated by Mycroft's germs" he said, his arm still outstretched toward her while waiting for Molly to take the bottle.

“Hamish just had a bath; I don't think there's any germs of any kind. Sit on the couch, Sherlock" she said.

Sherlock frowned.

"It's time for you to hold your son" the woman explained, before walking in the living room followed a few seconds later by the detective.

The man sighed in frustration and sank into his armchair, the bottle still in his hand; the next moment Molly stood by him, freeing him from the bottle and placing Hamish in his arms.

-Put your arm down his back. Like this...-instructed Molly.

For the first time since that madness began, Sherlock took a moment to look at the small body in his arms.

His son.

He never thought about having children... He always believed he would die before he turned 30.

Yet, in his arms there was evidence that that goal had been crossed, that the boy who hoped to put an end to his existence as soon as possible to silence the pain and noise in his head had somehow survived, succeeding in find people who understood and loved him despite his abrupt behavior.

Molly handed him the bottle and he approached the baby's face, until the latex teat was between Hamish's lips.

"Mycroft wants me to take care of him" he said without taking his eyes off the baby, now voraciously sucking.

"I can understand his point of view" Molly said, sitting comfortably on the couch not far from him.

Sherlock took his eyes off Hamish's face and pointed it at the woman.

-Do you?

I can't even take care of myself; how can I take care of him? -he asked her.

-The mere fact that you asked for my help is proof that you also think that’s a good idea.

You wouldn't spend an hour practicing for something you thought was pointless or boring...- Molly pointed out.

Sherlock returned to look at Hamish, slightly tilting the bottle to make things easier for him.

"How did John take it?" Sherlock heard Molly ask.

"I think his absence is a very good answer to your question" Sherlock said without looking at her.

For a few moments the only noise heard in the living room was Hamish's noisy suck, until Sherlock returned to lay his eyes on Molly.

-I don't know what to do Molly. Not knowing things scares me- he confessed honest, letting his fear show for the first time since Hamish arrival that morning.

Molly remained silent, observing father and son together before smiling.

-He looks a lot like you. He also seems to like you-Molly said pointing to the possessive way in which Hamish's hand was placed on Sherlock's right hand-All new parents are afraid at first, but learn with time: you could be a genius Sherlock but in this you are the same as all the other parents.

You will make your mistakes, you will learn, and the next time you’ll know the right thing to do- she said in a calm voice.

"What if he hates me?” he asked her, avoiding her gaze.

"Are we talking about Hamish or John? “asked Molly.

"Both of them" he said.

An affectionate expression accompanied by a slightly amused smile appeared on Molly's face.

-Sherlock your son is only seven months old.

Right now, all he needs is someone who takes care of him, change his diapers and reassure him when he cries.

Someone who loves him... And despite your constant protests, I'm sure you're the right person- she said in a still voice.

The man met her gaze again, putting the empty bottle on the coffee table a short distance from the armchair.

-Put Hamish against your shoulder and the pat him on his back with your open palm to make him burp - instructed Molly, watching him carefully as Sherlock carried out her orders.

The sound of an incomprehensible murmur reached Sherlock's ear, leading him to cast a glance at the child, perfectly at ease in his arms, as if he had instantly recognized the bond that united them.

-You're the only one who can take care of Hamish, and he's going to have someone to deal with who won't be spooked by his unusual intelligence, who won't let him be targeted or make his own mistakes when the "voices" in his head are too loud.

Hamish needs you almost as much as you need him" said Molly, fascinated by the scene in front of her.

"Do you think he's going to let me explain?" asked Sherlock, his gaze fixed before him.

Molly didn't need any further explanation to answer that question.

"Doesn't he always do that?" she asked, the serene smile still on her lips.

-But despite knowing him for many years, I can't tell you if he will forgive you.

Why didn't you tell him the truth, Sherlock?

Even in my blind adoration for you, I realized that she was different- Molly couldn't help but ask him.

The man sighed deeply and let the silence fall for a few moments, thinking carefully about how to answer the question.

"Irene was different, but not for the reasons you all believe" Sherlock said, interrupting himself by feeling Hamish's burp.

He glanced at the child and let Hamish lay his head against his shoulder, more comfortable, and stared briefly at his eyes fighting against sleep, before returning to stare at the wall in front of him.

-It was just another case at first, a challenge... a puzzle I couldn't solve.

Then suddenly she was gone, leaving me with the bitterness of not having solved the mystery and a stupid phone full of mischievous messages-

"Why did you save her life if she broke your heart?" asked Molly, genuinely curious.

The hint of a smile bent Sherlock's lips: Irene had not broken his heart, had not caused the same pain that John's absence had inflicted on him in those three long years, but had left a visible crack in his armor and heart.

Giving inexperienced eyes the impression that he was suffering for love.

-I had to. I couldn't let her die.

When did you and I become friends?" he asked, moving his attention to the woman next to him.

"After your fake suicide" Molly replied, frowning.

-Not before-

"I'd remember it otherwise" the woman retorted.

Sherlock nodded briefly.

-When I met Irene her purpose was to shift my attention elsewhere, make me lose interest in Moriarty: she used her charm, she tried with her body and when she realized that she would not succeed in her intent, she showed off her best weapon, her intelligence.

That's when we became friends.

An evolved version, complicated and incomprehensible to the poor mere mortals, which perfectly suited our needs.

Of course, she still wanted me dead because of Moriarty but that didn't stop our friendship from developing- explained Sherlock, trying to use simple terms.

-What a cute little girl...- comment sarcastically Molly.

-Irene was the first "stranger" to understand what was going on between John and me, perhaps even before we were fully aware of it and, convinced that she had found my weak point, tried to take advantage of the situation, but made a mistake... Despite everything she knew about me, about John, and even herself, she fell in love with me-

"How can you call it a mistake?" asked clearly confused Molly.

-What benefit did it bring you being in love with me?

What great joy did John receive from his feelings for me?

None.

You both suffered because of the feelings you had for me and the same happened to Irene: she tried to use me to achieve her purpose, to gain some advantage against my brother, but her feeling towards me was her undoing-

That's when Molly realized.

She understood why Sherlock had saved that woman despite the problems his actions had created with John, the feeling of sadness that had accompanied him for weeks after her disappearance, and why for years Sherlock had continued to hide his feelings for John, even though they were obvious to everyone but the doctor.

Sherlock had been wounded by a person he trusted, a petty and disloyal person, but still someone he thought he could trust, and to trigger the betrayal had been the transition from friendship love, at least on Irene's part.

-So, it's partly right to say that Irene broke my heart, but it didn't happen because of the loss of a mistress, but because of the disappearance of a friend-concluded Sherlock, a hand engaged in slow strokes on Hamish's back.

-That's why you saved her... But why did you keep the secret?" asked Molly.

-John always hated her. He was really jealous of Irene and I must admit that I was unbearable for some time after her presumed death.

When John came to me to tell me that Irene had entered a witness protection program in America, I could read the lies clearly on his face, that would be enough to find out the truth.

If we add the negligible fact that I had returned from Iran a few days before... I could have told the truth then, at that moment, but John is a terrible liar.

I could trust him with my life without the slightest doubt, but it wasn't me who was at risk.

So, I lied, and I accepted the lie that was being told to me, with the certainty that that chapter of our story was definitely closed.

I never thought we'd get to this- concluded Sherlock.

Molly stared at baby Hamish, now fast asleep, clinging to Sherlock and smiled slightly before meeting the detective's gaze again.

"Are you sorry?" she asked curious.

"Is it the friend or the future mother who wants to know?" asked the man, staring back at her.

An incredulous expression instantly appeared on Molly's face as the woman sat in a stiffer position on the sofa, as if it had been her posture that made him discover her secret.

-How did you do that? I didn't even tell Robert...

-You've gained a few pounds since the last time we saw each other and you're usually not the kind of person who tends to gain weight easily, your eyes twinkle every time you look at Hamish, probably imagining your baby, and to conclude I can see from your open bag a recipe for vitamins that are prescribed only during pregnancy- Sherlock explained all in one breath, as usual.

Molly smiled.

"I'm not surprised that Scotland Yard is so incompetent if Dimmock can't even put these few clues together" he said.

-Sherlock...- the woman immediately scolded him gently- I recently found out too and I don't have any obvious symptoms, so I'm not surprised that Robert didn't notice-

Sherlock in return hinted at a smile, before laying his eyes again on Hamish’s face, undecided on whether to keep him in his arms or whether to place him in the wicker basket.

-I'm not sorry-

Molly laid her gaze on the man and watched him peer over the child, cataloguing all the details and information in his Mind Palace as only Sherlock could do.

-Despite what will happen in the future I am not sorry-repeated.

And surprisingly, Sherlock realized that that was the truth.

_____________________________

**ALDERSHOT 11.30AM**

By the time John woke up that morning, his sister was already gone.

After all, only those who did not know the inebriation of London life, or those who were running away like him, decided to confine themselves to that small town, so quiet and boring.

After a quick shower, he had come down for breakfast, finding everything were had always been, on the same shelves, in the same cans, even on the same shelves in the fridge.

His father had entered the kitchen while John was busy buttering a slice of toast, the tea already infused on the table in the mug he had always used as a child.

"Did you sleep well?" asked the elderly man, the slightly grass-stained clothes that revealed his work in the garden.

John nodded.

"Would you like a cup of tea?" he asked.

"I've already had breakfast and I've had an appointment with some old friends in an hour, where more tea will be served, so I better leave some space" he said, sitting down at the table anyway.

John took his plate and sat next to his father, in the place that had always been reserved for him, smiling at him before taking a sip from his mug.

"Someone I know?" he asked so as not to let the silence fall.

His father shook his head.

-Friends I made after you left.

What are your plans for the day?

Sitting on the couch watching the morning talk shows and basking in your problems? - asked the old man with a wry smile.

John smiled again before shaking his head.

-Actually, I thought I'd stop by the old hardware store and buy some paint.

I want to paint the front door... Mom would have been furious to see it in those conditions- commented John.

His father nodded slowly.

-In fact, not a year passed without she forced me to repaint it-

\- Sounds like a good idea. I'll pay you ten pounds like when you were a little boy-added the old man.

John chuckled.

-Fifteen and we close the deal-

The man shook his head slowly.

-Not a penny more... Are you going to visit your mother? -Mr. Watson asked him.

John nodded, laying his mug on the table after a long sip.

-I was going to do it in the afternoon, do you want to come with me? -

Once more his father shook his head.

"I think it's better you go alone, you two have a lot to talk about" the older man said as he stood up.

John followed the man with his gaze and smiled at him when their eyes met again.

He wanted to thank him, tell him that he appreciated what he was doing for him, but Hamish Watson didn't need words, he knew exactly what his son was going through, even though neither John nor Harriet had let anything slip.

"Later” his father greeted him before turning his back on him and getting out of the kitchen.

John quickly finished his breakfast and, after taking his jacket from the hanger next to the door, went out into the street.

It was always a strange feeling to find himself in Aldershot: those streets had seen him as a child, they had seen his first attempts with bikes and then with cars, they had witnessed his fights and the clumsy approaches with girls, they had seen him drunk and also completely sober as he tried to get Harry home without waking their parents.

Mr. Hubbert, the owner of the hardware store recognized him almost immediately, engaging him in a conversation that kept him busy for ten minutes going back over all the major stages of his adolescence and giving him news of Samantha, his daughter, one of John's conquests, before asking him what he was doing in his shop.

After buying the paint can and the appropriate brushes, John returned home, wore clothes that were more comfortable and suitable for the work he was doing, and immediately put himself to work.

For an hour he focused on the work, determined to give his best, like his mother could come out on the porch at any moment to check how he was doing, with a plate of biscuits in one hand and a cup of tea in the other.

It was when he was busy repainting the bottom corners of the door that he realized that someone was staring at him.

He looked away from the door and there, standing on the sidewalk in front of his parents' house, he found Sherlock Holmes in all its glory: a pair of black trousers, a grey shirt covered almost certainly by a hidden black jacket from the expected coat.

Hamish's legs and head popped up from a front baby-carrier.

Looking back on Sherlock's face, their eyes met and for a moment, John felt the desire to go to Sherlock and absorb his charisma, his warmth.

_God, I missed you..._

Turning his gaze away from the man and laying it back on the door, John focused again on his work.

"What are you doing here?" he asked without taking his eyes off the red door.

"Do you want me to tell you that I was in the neighborhood?" asked the detective.

-Go home Sherlock-

"No, John. I'm going to stay here until we talk" he said in a calm voice.

An ironic sound escaped from John's open lips.

"It's a pity that I don’t want to talk about what happened" he said.

There was a brief moment of silence, and when the detective spoke again, his voice was closer and slightly lower, in that tone of voice that always provoked unexpected reactions in John.

-Well, you and I know I'm a very stubborn man. I'm going to stay here until you listen to me- Sherlock said persistent.

At those words, John looked away from the door and placed his eyes on the detective, now standing next to the step leading to the red door.

"You really can’t wait to talk about your feelings?" asked cutting.

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

-Of course, not... At the same time, you can't wait to let me know your feelings, to let me know how much my actions have hurt you...- retorted Sherlock in the usual analytical way in which he exposed the evidence on a case.

"Stop it!" John warned him.

-John! -

At the sound of the estranged voice, the two men shifted their gaze to the right where Mr. Watson was watching the scene, moving his gaze on Sherlock and on his own son.

-Mr. Watson- greeted Sherlock.

-Mr. Holmes, I see that you lost an assistant but gained a child...-comment the old man, his eyes now focused on Hamish.

-What's up Dad? -

-Could you keep fighting inside the house? I wouldn't want Mrs. Fleming to know all the details of your private life- Mr. Watson said, looking at the house next door and making a gesture of greeting to the woman who, clearly, was listening to their conversation behind the curtains.

John nodded standing to his feet, then dropped the brush dirty with red paint on the newspaper carefully placed on the doorway.

The two men followed Mr. Watson into the house to the living room where the elderly man stood at the doorstep of the room, glanced briefly at John who had dropped on the couch almost like dead weight, heedless of his hands dirty of red paint and then went back staring at Sherlock, a short distance from himself.

-I'd better take care of the baby for the time being.

What's his name? – Mr. Watson asked as he approached the detective.

Sherlock carefully opened the baby-carrier and handed Hamish into the man’s hands.

-Hamish-Sherlock replied.

The old man stared at Sherlock for a few moments.

"I don't know if I'm honored or offended" Mr. Watson said, moving slightly Hamish's coat to see his face.

"It wasn't my decision" the detective said.

Mr. Watson looked up briefly before returning to observe the child.

"Now I'm offended”.

"Dad, could you leave us alone for a few minutes?" interrupted John, annoyed.

-Of course... If you need anything I'll be in the kitchen- the older man announced before leaving the room with Hamish.

Left alone, the two men let the silence fall.

For his part, John just wanted to get back out on the porch and continue his work before the paint cooled down, without having to deal with a complicated talk that would bring with it shouts and accusations.

Just for once Sherlock could have left him alone, giving him time to reflect on what had happened; he needed peace of mind, isolation to have the necessary mental lucidity to decide about his own future.

Instead, as always, they will play by the rules of the great Sherlock Holmes...

"You wanted to talk" John said without looking at Sherlock.

A noise behind him let him know that Sherlock had moved from the farthest wall of the living room, approaching his father's armchair.

-I decided to take care of Hamish- the detective informed him.

Those words didn't particularly affect John.

John would have done the same if the situation had been reversed and although everyone was convinced Sherlock was a heartless machine, he was the only one who knew the truth.

The only one who knew the real Sherlock.

-He's your son-

-I want you to come home" added the black-haired man.

An ironic sound escaped the blonde’s slightly open lips: for once he was unwilling to satisfy the detective's every wish.

"I'm sorry, but I'm not ready to come back yet" he said.

Once again, Sherlock moved behind him, but this time John didn’t manage to recognize his movements.

"Will you ever be?" asked Sherlock.

-To be honest, I don't know...-

Why did they have to deal with that talk now?

He wasn't ready yet, he didn't have time to come to terms with what had happened... He needed to be alone!

"What's stopping you from doing that?" asked Sherlock relentless.

At those words, John turned and finally met Sherlock's gaze, a short distance from himself.

The ice-blue eyes he had always loved, always accustomed to hiding their emotions, now did nothing to hide the confusion and sense of bewilderment that was stirring in Sherlock.

For a brief moment John felt guilty about the punishment he had inflicted on his friend, but he took a hold of himself by recalling the chaos that had been unleashed and was still raging in his mind since Hamish's appearance.

"Do you really want me to tell you?" he asked in a resigned voice.

-John...- tried Sherlock, ready for what would happen soon.

In the space of an instant, John was standing still by the fireplace, again far from the detective, struggling with all his might not to let go of his anger.

-How could you... You lied to me for years and you would have kept doing it if it wasn't for Irene and her tricks- John said, both hands clasped on the edge of the fireplace.

"For the same reason that you looked me in the eye and lied to me: I did what I thought best for us" Sherlock replied in a calm, laid-back voice.

"Bullshit!" retorted John, raising his voice, turning around to meet the man's gaze.

\- Once again, you wanted to be ahead, to be sure that you were aware of something that none of us, not even Mycroft knew-

Sherlock shrugged; his hands sank into the pockets of his coat.

-Maybe... But that's not what really bothers you.

Come on John, admits it- Sherlock teased him.

The blonde covered his mouth with one hand for a few moments taking a deep breath, trying to control the anger he felt was ready to explode at the first wrong word from the detective, at the first hint of sarcastic tone, staring at Sherlock's gaze for a long time.

“Why her?" he finally asked.

Sherlock was right: it was the one question that tormented him.

Despite suffering because of her, Sherlock had chosen Irene over him to destroy Moriarty's criminal web.

-Irene had the right contacts, managed to get me safe places and ammunition at the right time, put me in touch with some of the targets and lastly, she knows a wide range of poisons.

Besides, she knew I was alive-ended Sherlock in a pragmatic tone.

-What a lucky girl... - John commented with a bitter tone.

"Do I have to remind you that you had a long line of lovers while I was away?"- Sherlock pointed out to him.

John thinned his eyes, glaring at him.

-YOU WERE DEAD, YOU STUPID FUCK! I wasn't cheating on you" he roared back.

Sherlock stared at him, not at all impressed by his anger, and crossed his arms at chest height.

-And I did-

-You knew I was alive when you slept with her. Use your huge brain and draw your conclusions-commented John.

"If it will make you feel better, we didn't make love. It was just sex" said Sherlock, who was genuinely convinced that that information could help his cause.

"Oh, well then it's all sorted, let me pack my bag" the doctor replied caustic.

-Spare me your sarcasm. It’s because of this attitude that I never told you that Irene was still alive, that I had saved her life; you've always been jealous of her, even though I never understood why-Sherlock added.

"Apparently I was right" John murmured.

"If you think about it, I don't think you had any reason to act like a jealous boyfriend: we weren't even a couple at the time" Sherlock pointed out, rational.

John stood silent for a few moments, looking down and staring at the tip of his sneakers.

"I don't even know if we're a couple now... - he murmured.

Sherlock breathed a frustrated sigh, putting both hands in his curls, as he often did during a difficult case to encourage concentration.

-I really don’t understand why it's okay that you had sex with dozens of men, but it's wrong that I slept with Irene.

Where's the difference? -he asked genuinely confused.

-Damn it Sherlock, how can you not tell the difference?

Those men never meant anything, they never had a fucking chance with me, none of them, no matter how hard they try to impress me.

And you know why?

Because every time, even though they were competing with a dead man, I always chose you-

John said those words to him, looking Sherlock in the eye, even though he felt pathetic even just to admit what he considered a weakness.

-You chose her when you saved her life and kept it from me, even though you saw me struggling between the truth and that bullshit of the witness protection program, and you did it again when you went with her to fight Moriarty’s men-added John.

This time it was Sherlock's turn to let go what appeared to be an angry yell, while the man approached John as if he wanted to grab him by the sweater and shake him until he came to his senses.

With a superhuman effort Sherlock stopped a few steps away and stared at him with burning eyes, pointing an accusing finger at him.

-I'm not going to apologize for saving your life!

I didn't do it when I came back and I never will!" Sherlock said through his teeth.

"I could have helped you!" retorted John with the same anger.

"No John you couldn't!" exploded Sherlock.

The blonde stared at him, clearly struck by those words, and in that brief moment, the silence that descended into the living room was deafening.

Sherlock sighed and walked a few steps away from the doctor, turning his back briefly before meeting John’s eyes once more.

-You were controlled 24/7 by Moriarty's men, even the slightest mistake would have shattered the entire operation.

If I tried to contact you, and believe me, I thought of hundreds of ways I could do it during my absence, they would have known, and you would have died...

Your pain, what you've had to endure over the last three years because of me, was the best cover I could have.

They believed in my death because of your pain- Sherlock concluded.

John looked away from the man, suddenly feeling the need of hiding in a corner and crying without any shame.

What human being willingly inflicted the suffering John had to endure only to protect himself, to carry out his mission?

Sherlock Holmes, obviously.

-Then I should have died.

It would have made your coverage even more real" he muttered, thinking back how many times he had come close to that goal.

With a quick movement, Sherlock stood before him, both hands on the sides of his face, eyes looking for the doctor's blue ones.

-Don't say that. You don't even think about that" Sherlock said, panic in his voice.

John pulled Sherlock’s hands away from his face, freeing himself from Sherlock's grasp.

-Why not? If I had succeeded in one of the many clumsy attempts that your brother or Greg managed to stop, you would have come home earlier, and you would have had no reason to travel around the world searching for international murderers and criminals... Maybe you could have a family with Irene-

"Have you listened to anything I've told you in the last few days?" asked Sherlock, trying get rid of the chills that John's words had caused.

"How can I still believe it Sherlock?" asked John.

Sherlock remained silent, observing the tension in John's shoulder and back muscles, the dark circles under his eyes, and for the umpteenth time the resigned expression that was clearly visible on the man's face.

"John, look at me" Sherlock said almost softly.

Accompanied by a resigned sigh, John looked up at the detective.

-Everything I've said in the last few days is true... I want a future with you...-he said insecure.

"Until the next secret comes out" John murmured.

Sherlock shook his head vehemently.

-No more secrets. I promise you-

There was nothing John wanted more than to believe Sherlock's words and he almost had to stop himself so he will not run to the detective hiding in his arms, his face in the hollow space between his neck and shoulder, where Sherlock’s scent was stronger and forget those days of coldness.

After all, Irene had left once again, leaving Hamish at their doorstep like the morning mail, so why ruin his own life and Sherlock's for one mistake?

Hamish's arrival would finally make them a family…

After all, it was just one stupid mistake...

"Has it happened only once?" he asked.

He just needed to observe the change of expression on Sherlock's face to get his answer.

-Six times.

We were in Berlin when it first happened... It was Irene who came on to me" the detective replied.

"The other times?"- John interrupted him.

-I was the one looking for her- Sherlock confessed.

John nodded slowly, feeling the anger that had been tempered for a while by other conflicting emotions rising again, combined with a feeling that John had never felt so overwhelming.

Jealousy.

Once again, he had been right, but never before had he wished to be wrong.

-Mh... I think it's better for you to go, it takes more than an hour to get back to London and Hamish will end up getting too tired...-he said looking up at the clock on the wall.

-John...-

-No Sherlock.

I need you to leave. Now- he stopped the detective in an abrupt tone.

Sherlock took a couple of steps towards the door before turning back to John who carefully avoided to meet his gaze.

"When are you going home?" Sherlock asked for the second time.

"I don't know" John replied.

“Are you coming back? -

The odds of his return to Baker Street right now were minimal and seemed to thin even further with every question and every word he and Sherlock exchanged.

"I don't know" John said honest. "I don't know."

Sherlock took two more steps stopping by the entrance of the living room and stared at John, the man who had entered his life with the intention of sharing an apartment and who had quickly become his best friend, the secret object of his desire and the only person in the world whom Sherlock would put his life at risk against Moriarty and his henchmen.

The only man he ever really loved.

-Everything I've said in the last few days is true.

Yesterday morning you asked me if I knew why I was apologizing... I'm sorry that you're suffering from the consequences of my mistake, that it's hard for you to accept Hamish for who he is...

But I can't back out.

He's a Holmes, and I'm the only one who can stand by him... And I'd like you to be part of my future and his.

Are you really ready to give up the future we imagined just two days ago because you can't forgive yet another stupid mistake?

There's one last thing I need to tell you, and then I'm going to leave... If you were dead, I would have followed you.

Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade would have had a sniper monitoring their every move for the rest of their days, but if you had died that battle would have made no sense to me-concluded Sherlock.

The next moment he was gone, leaving John to fight with his noisy thoughts while trying to control the crazy heartbeat of his own heart.

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	9. An innocent man

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The detective had left the choice to him, it was clear from his words that he would wait years if John would ask him.  
But John Watson had never been a cruel man.  
It was then, in that limbo between staying or running away that John made his own decision.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You know you only hurt yourself out of spite  
I guess you'd rather be a martyr tonight  
That's your decision  
But I'm not below  
Anybody I know  
If there's a chance of resurrecting a love  
I'm not above going back to the start  
To find out where the heartache began

-Do you think your friend will be back soon? -

If there was one thing John Watson had learned to hate it was silence.

The calmness and stillness that he always associated with silence during his childhood had lost all their reassuring character as soon as he set foot in Afghanistan; in that deserted land forgotten by God, total peace and immobility was inevitably followed by explosions, death and destruction, making you wary at the first hint of apparent calm.

Upon his return to England, Sherlock had appeared in his life and death and destruction had been supplanted by police sirens, chemical explosions and gunshots fired to save their lives or to escape boredom.

Until Moriarty had put in place the final act of his plan to get rid of Sherlock and the silence had fallen for a very long time.

Even that time it was Sherlock who saved him from silence and for a wonderful moment, John had deluded himself that the detective would turn away the immobility forever.

But once again he was wrong...

For almost twenty minutes sitting in the small living room of the Watson's house, silence reigned.

So much time had passed since Sherlock Holmes, with one of his usual dramatic gestures, for once perfectly justified, had closed the door behind at the end of a long and stressful conversation that had done nothing but make things worse.

It wasn't the first time that, after one of their discussions, John and Sherlock were on two completely different paths, but never as this time John had the impression that going back was impossible.

Since the detective had slammed the door behind himself, John had sat on the couch, thinking endlessly back to the long conversation that had taken place in that room, breaking it down into short sentences, retracing in his memory every word, every inflection to find even the most hidden meaning.

But he finds himself empty-handed.

There wasn't much to analyze, except the complete failure of a relationship that ended before it even started...

Once again, Irene had managed to turn them against each other: John had always known, from the first time he met her, that this woman would bring them trouble and once again she had confirmed it.

**"** ** _If it can make you feel better, we didn't make love"_ **

No, it didn't make him feel better at all!

He had not earned the nickname "Three Watson Continents" by establishing a serious relationship with every partner he had slept with, but in his case it was different: each time his partners knew what they could expect from him, how far they could go and above all they knew that they could not make many claims.

Even in recent years, with his "_long line of lovers_" he had always made it clear in advance that he was not looking for a love story, that his mind was occupied elsewhere, and that the only thing his lovers could expect from him was a simple one night stand.

The same could not be said for Sherlock.

Sherlock was not the type to have meaningless love affairs, only for the base human instinct to "spend a night with someone”.

His every relationship had always had a background of feeling, despite his apparent disgust with the whole emotional sphere: he had taken years to admit that there was something else that bound him to John, besides friendship, and discrediting his encounters with Irene in that way was an insult to the doctor intelligence and especially to the detective’s.

**"_We were in Berlin when it first happened... It was Irene who came forward”_**

He could have understood and forgiven what had happened if it had happened only once and especially if, as Sherlock's words had confirmed, he could have blamed Irene for the “incident”.

Of course, he wouldn't have been happy, but at least he could have forgotten what had happened faster and moved on with his life.

But Sherlock denied him that comfort too...

-Idiot...- John found himself murmuring trough gritted teeth, words echoing in the silent room.

He should have stopped when he was ahead, instead of ruining himself with his own hands again.

** _"I've been looking for her."_ **

The idea of Sherlock being overwhelmed by such a human feeling as lust made him even more furious, while his imagination flooded him with images that had once been of two of them together and that now only worsen his anger and resentment: Sherlock's pale back stretched by effort, his perfectly drawn lips made more swollen by kisses and bites, the marks on his chest and neck left by two lips unable to detach from that statuesque body... the satisfied expression on his face as he orgasmed.

_I wonder how many tricks Irene had taught him..._

Caught in despondency, John sank his face into his hands, trying to drive away those images.

He could never stand that woman and now he had no fear in saying that antipathy had turned into hatred.

But was it fair to engage in his hatred for Irene even Sherlock?

After all, how many times had Sherlock seen him go out on a date with another woman, or with another man in recent weeks, fully aware of what his main purpose was, what his goal was at the end of those dates?

"But we weren't together at the time" he said to himself.

Also, in all that complicated matter, Hamish was to be considered.

Irene had abandoned him in Baker Street, but who gave them the certainty that in the not too distant future she would not return to take him back?

What would happen if John would forgive Sherlock, if he agreed to raise Hamish with him and maybe after two, five or ten years, Irene will reappear in their lives, taking Hamish back?

What would John do if she tried to get Sherlock's attention again?

He would fight with tooth and nails, that was for sure, but how could he rob a child of his family, his real parents?

That situation was fucking complicated!

It was then that his father's voice had reached him from the corridor leading to the kitchen, removing him from his thoughts and ripping it from the labyrinth that had become his mind.

John had stood up and headed for the parlor door.

"No, I don't think he'll be back anytime soon" he said.

Standing in the doorway, John picked in the hallway and as soon as he met his father's gaze, he felt every single muscle in his body stiffen: Hamish Watson stood still on the kitchen doorstep, one arm placed under Hamish's butt while the other arm was bent at chest height holding between two fingers the small hand of the child who, perfectly at ease, carefully observed the elderly man as if he wanted to catalog every wrinkle, facial expression or patch of skin.

"I think we have a problem then" said his father.

John let out an incredulous sigh that he had unknowingly restrained and took two steps in the hallway toward his father.

It was only then that his mind brought the last moments of his conversation with Sherlock back, showing him an important missing piece: before slamming the door behind himself, the detective had made no move towards the kitchen to retrieve Hamish.

-I can't believe it. He left his son here! - John commented in disbelief.

Hamish Watson shrugged.

"Until he starts crying, it's not a problem”.

John shook his head trying to dispel the fog that seemed to have taken hold of his brain and strangely, that simple gesture seemed to work, because one thing immediately became clear to him.

It wasn't an accident.

Sherlock had left Hamish there on purpose, so that John could spend some time with the baby.

-What a son of a... - he murmured, before turning around and heading to the doorway where he had left his coat.

His mobile phone had been off since the previous day, ever since he had interrupted his phone call with Greg, aware that otherwise Sherlock would engulfed it with texts to convince him to come back, and not even two seconds after turning it back on, an avalanche of texts and multiple voice messages started to show up on his phone.

Without paying attention to any notification, John selected the list of the last calls and pressed Greg's number, starting the call.

-John? Is it you? - Greg answered.

-Hey Greg- the doctor greeted him.

A breath of relief came to his ear, taking him by surprise: if Sherlock showed up there, it meant that Mycroft knew where he had hidden and consequently Greg, so why was the inspector so relieved to hear his voice?

Was it related to the abrupt way he had closed the previous conversation?

-Finally... I left you thousands of texts on your voicemail-said Greg.

-Are you okay? -

John nodded, remembering then that there was no one else there besides his father.

The next moment he realized that maybe it was better this way: Greg was a friend, a good friend who had kept him afloat in recent years and who really didn't deserve his lies.

The problem, however, was that John had no intention of talking about what had happened with Sherlock, at least not now: everything was still so confused, Sherlock's visit had only made things worse, and John definitely needed time to think.

-Greg...-said John after a deep breath.

-Fuck... Hamish is here with me- he said disheartened.

-What's that? What you mean, Hamish is with you? -Greg said clearly in disbelief at the other man’s words.

John put his left hand to his face and covered his eyes rubbing them vigorously.

-Sherlock came here, we had an argument and I told him to leave.

As usual, he slammed the door and disappeared.

It's been almost half an hour; I think he’s on the train to London now-John added.

"How could he forget him there?" asked Greg, the incredulity clear in every word.

The doctor glanced at his father and Hamish, engaged in an incomprehensible conversation and sighed.

"I don't think he forgot him...- he murmured before clearing his throat.

-Listen could you call Mycroft and have someone come and get him back? I can't...- he added.

"Don’t worry, I'll take care of it" Greg reassured him.

-Oh Greg, one more thing!

Tell him it must be a trusted and easily recognizable person; someone Mycroft would trust his life to... I'm not going to give Sherlock's son to the first federal guy who knocks on my door-

Despite all the chaos his arrival had brought with him, Hamish was an innocent and helpless child that John felt the absurd impulse to protect.

"I will, don't worry" his friend reassured him.

After thanking him, John ended the communication and shoved his cell phone into his trouser pocket, then looked back at the kitchen door: his father seemed perfectly at ease with Hamish, like if he spent every day surrounded by children and not by men of his own age.

For a brief moment, John felt guilty because neither he nor Harry will have a conventional family with a house with white picket fences, two or three children and a dog waiting for them in the garden, thus depriving the old Watson of grandchildren to whom tell stories or bring to the park like so many old men his age.

"You are good with children" John said, kicking his thoughts away.

His father met his gaze for a moment before moving it again on Hamish, walking down the corridor.

"Things haven't changed much since you and your sister were little" he said, "But it's time for you and this little guy to spend some time alone" he said, stopping next to John.

John frowned and stepped back, clearly reluctant at the idea of taking care of Hamish.

-What? No!

I don't know anything about children, especially so small...-he retorted.

-Well, you're going to have to start somewhere, right?

Also, if you can keep up with the father, I don’t think you will have much difficulty with the miniature version-answered the old man with a small smile on his lips.

John stared in disbelief at the man for a few moments.

"John I have to go out in a couple of hours and in the meantime I'd like to take a nap and a shower, but I don't think it's possible to do all these things with an infant in my arms, so how about you help me out?"

Aware that he had no alternative, John sighed and nodded, thus decreeing his surrender.

Gently, he clasped his arms around Hamish's body, mimicking the position seen just moment before from his father and glanced at the child, hinting a smile.

-Ehi buddy! – John greeted him, losing himself for a moment in the ice blue eyes of the little boy.

"Holmes left his bag by the door, I think there's everything you need in case he's hungry or he needs to be changed" his father told him.

"I don't know anything about changing a diaper" John pointed out.

-You learned how to do surgeries in a battlefield, I don't think you need another degree to change a diaper-comment sarcastic the older man.

John sighed and looked back at the child, barely noticing his father as he walked down the hall.

"What should I do with him in the meantime?" he asked.

-Use your imagination. Usually what do you and his father do together? -asked Mr. Watson.

_We run around the dark streets of London, he shoots at the walls of the house and does experiments on severed body parts while I quietly read the newspaper or write a new page of the blog in the living room, but certainly all these activities were not suitable for a child._

Merely shaking his head, John moved back in the hallway toward the living room.

He looked around for an instant, until he found a blanket neatly folded on the back of an armchair and, balancing Hamish between one arm and the other, stretched it out on the carpet of the living room, then placed the child on his tummy.

After taking another deep breath, John settled down next to Hamish, his legs crossed on the floor, as he was six years old, and in the parish of Saint Thomas along with the scouts' group, observing the little boy.

Despite the immobility to which his young age forced him, Hamish bent his back moving his head left and right, almost mimicking an old tortoise who struggles in its movements but who is still curious about the world around her, studying the new room.

John lay down on his side, his elbow folded to support the weight of his body and observed Hamish and how he accompanied his every move with a continuous mumble, almost a commentary of his actions for those around him, so that his actions were clear and easily understandable to all.

"Who would have thought Holmes Jr. would be a chatterbox" said John, a corner of his mouth bent upwards in a smile.

As if the sound of his voice was what he was looking for, Hamish's eyes rested on his face promptly, meeting John’s.

Overwhelmed by the intensity he had seen so often in another pair of eyes, John swallowed, trying to get rid of the knot that had formed in his throat, addressing a loving smile to the child.

"Do you like my voice?" John asked gently, stretching his free arm towards Hamish and stroking his black hair, discovering them soft and thick despite his young age.

"It must be a big change from your dad's thunderous one."

A guttural sound came out of Hamish's lips making him laugh and leading him to caress his soft and slightly plump fingers: perhaps the child would avoid the talking skeleton effect that seemed to afflict both Mycroft and Sherlock.

-Is that your way of saying dad? Or are you trying to say I’m right? -John asked.

Looking closely at Hamish's face, John was able to clearly see the similarities with the face he knew almost perfectly: his eyes were icy-blue and always engaged in deep reflections, the hint of what would become protruding cheekbones, only the mouth was different, clearly a genetic inheritance of his mother.

"You're going to turn all girls' heads as you grow up" John said in a whisper, stroking his slightly wavy hair.

Gaining more confidence, he sat down and took Hamish in his arms, sitting him on his crossed legs, supporting his back with one hand, immediately encountering the gaze of the child who did not seem intent on abandoning him.

-They're going to tell you a lot of things about your dad.

You will hear so many bad comments and so many lies about him, but you do not listen to it; your father is rude ninety percent of the time, incredibly savvy, especially when he knows he's right, and it can make you angry even with a simple question.

But he's also the most generous person that I know... although he would do anything not to let it show, and when he decides that a person is worthy of his affection and friendship then it is forever- John said gently stroking Hamish's back.

-So, don't listen to the disapproval, it's just proof that your father is surrounded by idiotic people most of the time... Despite appearances, you could not have a better dad.

Too bad sometimes he's a big idiot.

That's why he needs someone who's always by his side to berate him when he's acting like an idiot or even to make sure he doesn't feel too lonely- he ended with a smile.

Hamish made another guttural sound that John clearly interpreted as a sign of assent and laughing he kissed Hamish’s black hair.

"How about listening to some music, instead of the moans of a poor fool?" he asked, placing Hamish back on the tartan and standing up to the stereo system.

His parents had always been passionate about music, especially opera and classical music, making an exception only for Frank Sinatra and Ella Fitzgerald, and after a quick glance at the records, John chose one he loved as a child and probably Hamish would like too.

The child, fearing he had been left alone, began to complain, but just then in the room the notes of "_Rhapsodia in blue_" played masterfully at the piano rang out, which led Hamish to immobilize for a few moments, clearly surprised by the music.

"Let's see if you're a fan of classical music like your father" John said as he approached Hamish again.

This time, however, instead of sitting on the uncomfortable carpet, John lay down on the portion left free by Hamish on the plaid, then turned to his side to observe the child.

"Do you like it?" he asked, stroking the baby’s back, "I should start instructing you on the right kind of music to listen to, but you seem a little too young for rock and punk music- he added.

Why was he talking to Hamish as if they had all the time in the world or as if his presence in the child's life was a certainty?

John himself had no idea what would happen once Hamish returned to Baker Street.

John didn't even know if he was going to go back to Baker Street!

However, despite considering the possibility of him leaving permanently Baker Street many times in the last thirty-six hours, that thought left him with a sense of bewilderment equal to the one felt on his return from Afghanistan and, to protect himself from that horrendous feeling, John took the child back in his arms, lying on his back and settling Hamish on his chest.

The moment the small body was placed against his, a warm heat seemed to envelop John, driving away those sad thoughts that had taken hold of his mind.

He wrapped his arm around Hamish's back pressing him lightly against himself and brought his gaze to the baby's face, once again encountering his icy-blue eyes that looked at him serene and confident: how could he trust him so completely even though he had met him just an hour ago?

Only a child could reach that level of trust...

John recalled how Sherlock had trusted him completely the day after meeting him for the first time, to the point where the detective involved him in his reckless lifestyle electing him his partner.

Had he not known Mycroft and his chronic mistrust of mankind John would have thought of a genetic trait of the Holmes family.

"Just like your father, mh?" he said.

Hamish looked perfectly at ease in his new position, one hand clawing around John sweater and the other on his right cheek, drool slowly falling from his parted lips down his chin.

At that sight John smiled and in the absence of a bib, wiped the chin damp with saliva with the sleeve of his sweater with delicate and tentative gestures.

His mind wandered for a moment to Baker Street, imagining Sherlock as a parent to little Hamish, busy feeding him, or focused on bathing him with the same delicacy he used to handle his test tubes or in the arduous task of getting him to sleep.

"I would have material to blackmail him for the rest of my life" John said with a wry smile, caressing the baby's hair, then making funny faces to make Hamish smile.

The sound of the bell caught him by surprise, leading him to glance at the door behind him before laying his eyes on Hamish once again.

"They came to pick you up, young man" he said, pulling Hamish closer to his chest, suddenly feeling sad.

How long had it been since he had called Greg?

Twenty minutes, half an hour? Forty minutes maybe?

Had the time flown so fast?

The doorbell rang a second time and John was forced to play a balancing act to get back on his feet without letting Hamish out of his arms and, before heading to the front door, the man stopped next to the stereo system and turned off the music.

"I'm coming!" he said to the mysterious guest waiting for him on the other side of the door.

John stole one last look of the child and once again kissed his black hair.

"Don’t forget what I told you...” John murmured as he made his way to the red door.

From the moment he had ended his phone call with Greg, he had assumed that it would be one of Mycroft's many minions, given his request that to pick up Hamish should come one of Mycroft’s most trusted man, so opening the front door he expected to see Anthea, ready to take a quick glance at the child before looking back at her Blackberry and the many secrets it hold.

His surprise was therefore enormous when he was confronted by a man in a three-piece suit accompanied by his customary umbrella.

-Mycroft-John greeted him clearly letting his surprise show on his face and in the tone of his voice-I didn't expect to see you here- he added.

The man greeted him with one of his typical smiles of circumstance.

"You specifically requested a trusted person" the British official pointed out.

And who could be safer than the child's uncle, the gray eminence of the British Government?

"To be honest, I thought Anthea would come” John confessed to him, stepping aside to get Mycroft into the house.

"Anthea is not the kind of woman that many would call maternal" Mycroft said.

"To be honest, it doesn't surprise me at all" mumbled John, closing the door behind him, sure that the other man had heard his comment anyway.

For a moment they remained still in the vestibule; John gave the man time to look around and catalogue as much information as possible about the house where he spent his childhood, and it was only when Mycroft turned to him again that John smiled at him.

"Do you have time for a cup of tea?" John asked, unable to forget good manners even in that situation.

"I can find time for it" said the other man, stepping aside for John to walk before him and make his way to the kitchen.

Once he walked down the hall and entered the kitchen, John turned to Mycroft and carefully passed Hamish to the man so he had his hands free during tea preparation; over the next few minutes, as John huddled with the kettle and cups , Mycroft sat around the table and, after finding a comfortable position for himself and Hamish, looked for a way to entertain the child, but Hamish seemed terribly fascinated by his dark red tie trying with his uncoordinated movements to grab it.

Turning to the table, with a cup clenched in both hands, John smiled: Hamish had managed in the difficult task of conquering even the aloof Mycroft Holmes.

Maybe there was still hope for the world...

-I'm sorry about the mug, but my mother was a fan of the Queen Mother-said John, looking at the two cups on which the elderly Queen's placid, smiling face was painted.

"She was an exceptional woman" Mycroft merely commented.

Not at all surprised by the comment, John walked back to the counter to get sugar and milk and put them in the middle of the table and it was then that, after casting a glance at the clock hanging on the wall, he noticed how long it had actually been since Sherlock arrival.

Calculating the length of the train journey from London, John realized that Hamish had to be terribly hungry; moving with confidence, he briefly walked out of the kitchen and walked to the front door where he found the elegant blue-sea bag, just where Sherlock had left it upon his arrival.

Returning to his steps, he opened it and found inside the necessary to change Hamish, with a clean diaper wet wipes and a tube of Vaseline cream, a spare onesie and a bottle with what surely at the time of leaving the house was boiling water and a scoop of powdered milk placed hermetically under the latex teat.

Returning to the kitchen, John carefully opened the bottle, checking the amount of water contained in the bottle before emptying it in the sink, and filling it with warm water directly from the kettle and then carefully adding the milk powder to it with extreme caution, being careful not to drop it on the kitchen floor, finally closing up the bottle.

Only then did he turn again to Mycroft.

"Do you want to take care of it?" he asked, noting for the first time the incredulous look on the man's face.

"It seems you have everything under control…Carry on" Mycroft said, masking his surprise behind the mask of indifference he usually wore.

John approached the man and with the typical attention of inexperience, he closed his arms around Hamish's body and pulled him against himself approaching the empty chair in front of Mycroft.

After shaking it a couple of times, John moved the bottle close to Hamish’s face who, hungry, quickly brought it to his mouth, starting to suck with voracity.

A satisfied smile appeared on John's face, before regaining control of himself and looking up again at Mycroft.

"I think it's my duty to apologize for my brother's behavior… As always- Mycroft started to say, stirring his tea after pouring a teaspoon of sugar into it.

The British official was clearly uncomfortable, not because of yet another intemperance of Sherlock, but because of what had happened in front of him a few seconds earlier.

“You don't have to.

Sherlock did it on purpose... He wanted me to spend some time alone with Hamish.

I think he wanted to try something" John said.

Despite their differences, if you knew where to look it was easy to spot the similarities in the Holmes’ brothers; for this reason, John was not surprised when a resolute expression appeared on Mycroft's face.

He had seen it so many times in the months he lived with Sherlock and had missed it incredibly during his absence: the exact moment when the last piece of the puzzle went to its place and everything finally made sense, allowing Sherlock to solve the mystery.

-I see-

John took a long sip from his cup, sure Hamish wouldn't let go of the bottle, letting the man get lost in his thoughts for a few moments before asking him the question that was tormenting him since the previous morning.

-Did you know? -

Mycroft's eyes returned to focus on the doctor, making him the only object of his attention.

-What I told you during our meeting back then was true and it still was until yesterday morning: according to my sources, Irene Adler was dead.

No one can escape a death sentence in Iran" he said in a quiet voice.

-Unless Sherlock Holmes is your guardian angel- John sarcastically commented.

"I understand your reticence John, probably if I found out that Gregory has a son from a previous relationship, I'd break up our association in an instant" the British official said.

John frowned, struck by the certainty that had accompanied those words.

-Greg loves you-rebutted John unable to hold back.

The smile of circumstance appeared again, and Mycroft tilted his head slightly to the right, in a clear act of condescension.

-Of course, but it wouldn't be enough.

But Sherlock is not me... He has tried to create a connection between you and Hamish and will almost certainly continue to try until you decide-

Unable to hold back his nervous energy, John passed his hand through his hair and lowered his gaze, meeting Hamish's ice-blue eyes, heedless that those small gestures made him weak in front of the eldest Holmes.

-I can't decide. Not now.

Just two days ago I had everything I had always wanted for three years and now I don't know if I have to pack my stuff and move out from Baker Street or give your brother another chance- he said exasperated.

Why did everyone expect anything from him? Why didn't they just leave him alone for once and give him time to reflect on what he wanted to do with his life?

The now empty bottle hung between Hamish's lips and with sure gestures John took it out of the child's grip and placed Hamish against his shoulder to help him burp, then he looked up and met Mycroft’s gaze and let go to a deep breath.

-It’s not Hamish’s fault…He’s adorable and beautiful and he's going to be a great kid. It’s because of that woman.

Wouldn't it be better for Hamish and also for Sherlock if you found Irene so they could try and be a family? -John asked him, starting to massage the baby's back.

During his speech Mycroft had never looked away from John’s face, the cup of tea to cover part of his face and it was only when John had finished his outburst that Mycroft decided to put the cup on the table and show him the impassive expression painted on his face.

"Personally, I can't think of anything worse" Mycroft replied in a neutral tone.

-Why is that? She is the mother of his son...-said John sincerely surprised by the man's words.

-She’s also a manipulative bitch capable of any deception or lie to achieve her purpose.

It would take less than a month before one of them takes good use on lethal weapons, poisons and so on.

I certainly don't have to tell you that, despite the evidence to the contrary and all the objections you might raise right now, you are the only person who can help Sherlock in this situation.

I can give you a long list of evidence that would only corroborate my case, but it's a decision you have to make all by yourself, so when you finally make your choice you can't blame anyone else but yourself- Mycroft said.

For a moment in the room fell the silence, interrupted only by Hamish's heavy breathing that led John to turn to him to discover the baby fast asleep against his right shoulder.

"But I can assure you that once you make your decision, you will never regret it" Mycroft added.

John hinted at a small sad smile.

"You already seem to know what my decision is" John said.

A twin smile appeared on the face of the British official, surprising the doctor.

-Contrary to what Sherlock believes, I can understand people's desires very clearly-

And in his case, there was no need for a Holmes in depth analysis to find his most undisclosed desire.

___________________________________

Hamish had been escorted back to Baker Street by the usual obnoxious black car.

His brother had stopped by the apartment just long enough to leave him everything he had left behind at the Watson's house and put Hamish in his crib.

Sherlock knew that the man had spoken to John, that something had happened during their meeting, he clearly read it on Mycroft's face, but he had not wanted to give in to the temptation to ask his brother what had troubled him.

Leaving Hamish with John had been a gamble: reckless, clearly improvised, but at that moment his instincts had prompted him to take the risk, as few other times in his life.

John's qualms were not related to Hamish, so Sherlock knew that the child was safe with the doctor, even if only for his affectionate and helpful soul, and Sherlock know he had been right when Mycroft told him that John had fed Hamish before their departure.

Could it be that John accepted Hamish so quickly, but he couldn't forgive him?

Sherlock had told John that sex with Irene had no meaning to him, what else did he want to hear?

Why couldn't he forgive him so they could resume their lives from where they had abruptly interrupted them two days earlier?

How could such insignificant mechanical action as sex ruin the relationship between him and John?

Sherlock had allowed himself the temptation of sex only a few times in his life, and each time he had failed to understand all the enthusiasm that surrounded those few technical and repetitive actions that accompanied it.

He was convinced, by the brief attempts he had made in the previous days, that with John it would be different, that the doctor would add a novelty or some change that would make him understand and appreciate the mysteries behind sex.

He just had to convince John to come back...

The apartment was silent for almost two hours, allowing him to reflect for a long time on the situation, taking advantage of Hamish's long nap.

It was only when the child began to complain in his cot that Sherlock broke away from his thoughts and approached the child.

-You finally woke up. You must have taken from your mother in this field-commented Sherlock picking up the baby stopping by the crib for a few moments, leaving him time to wake up altogether.

When his eyes met Sherlock’s, Hamish turned to him with a toothless and slightly drooling smile, to show him the happiness he felt in seeing him again after their brief separation.

Only one other person had been so happy to see him, his mother excluded.

At that sight the detective could not hold back the hint of a smile in return, before pulling the child against his chest, placing him better in his arms.

-I promise this is the only time I'm going to use you for an experiment, but it was necessary to get John home.

Don't you want him to come back too? - he asked, lowering his gaze to intercept Hamish’s eyes again, but the boy’s attention was totally focused on his blue robe.

Moving slowly, Sherlock approached the window and settled on the inner ledge as he had so often done before, observing the city that moved outside the four walls of his apartment.

"This is London, one of the things I love besides my violin, my work and...” said leaving the sentence unfinished, still unable to give voice to his feelings.

-Do you see all those people who are walking down the street? They are all going home after a day's work; fifty per cent of them will find a spouse waiting for them, twenty per cent a partner, ten per cent a roommate and another ten per cent a pet and the rest just an empty apartment.

Tomorrow I'm going to take you around town... London is so big and constantly evolving that I think it's best to get to know it as soon as possible" he said, looking back at the child who watched the world out the window.

With an unexpected smile to stretch his lips, Sherlock turned Hamish towards him and, cautiously, laid a kiss in his forehead.

"I have no idea what I'm doing" Sherlock said honest, staring at those eyes so similar to his own and yet so different. - But I promise I'll do everything I can to give you the best.

You in the meantime try not to be too stubborn in case I get it wrong- he added.

Once again, Hamish smiled at him and that little smile earned another kiss on his smooth forehead.

Perhaps being a father was not so difficult, Sherlock thought again holding Hamish against his chest, his gaze once again lost out of the window where, in the brief interlude, a car that he had seen too many times had appeared.

The next moment the sound of heavy footsteps came outside his door, up the seventeen steps leading to their apartment and almost like an apparition Greg Lestrade arrived on his doorstep, accompanied by a slight smell of Indian food.

Sherlock hold the man's gaze for a few moments, noting the surprise that had appeared in his eyes to find him in that "intimate" position with Hamish, before he took the few steps that separated him from the living room.

"Was it really necessary?" Greg asked, leaving the take-way bag on the coffee table in the living room and then taking off his coat.

Sherlock rolled his eyes at that question, rising to his feet and moving towards the kitchen; if Lestrade had brought food it would have been dinner time for Hamish too.

"You should know by now that I'm not the type to indulge in useless actions" Sherlock said, starting the kettle and taking a clean bottle the next moment- John needed to be reminded that his place is here-commented.

Greg followed him into the kitchen with his bag and began placing the containers on the experiment-free portions of the table.

-Are you going to eat your dinner here? Don't you have a house of your own to return to? -Sherlock asked without acrimony.

"I promised John I'd keep an eye on you, and if I know you at least a little bit, I'm willing to bet you haven't touched food since John walked out of that door yesterday morning- Greg said.

-Do you want me to take him? “he then asked, noting that the detective was trying to balance Hamish in his arms and, at the same time, prepare the bottle.

Sherlock shrugged, then let the other man take the child.

"Hey Misha" said Greg, stroking the baby's back, prompting a smoldering look from Sherlock for the nickname.

\- What? Didn't you ever get a nickname when you were little? -Greg asked, a wry smile on his lips.

-No, not that I remember, no. Luckily there’s Uncle Greg taking care of these details, isn't it, Hamish? -

This time it was Greg who raised his eyes to the sky, but let the sarcastic comment slide, letting the room fall silent.

"You need to give John some time" Greg said after a few moments.

"I gave him twenty-four hours, how much longer does he need?" asked Sherlock, too forcefully waving the bottle so as not to let go of one of his angry outbursts.

-We're not talking about an acid-corroded sweater or another potentially toxic explosion, it's a baby...Your baby.

It takes a while to come to terms with this news- said Greg trying to make him understand.

-Why is that? I had to quickly adapt to the "news" and come to terms with the knowledge that my life will never be the same again.

It took me a couple of hours, how long will it take him? -he asked, trying to apply logic as always to the tangle of feelings that he felt and that destabilized him.

"That explains why you're a genius and we're just mere mortals" Greg said.

Sherlock took Hamish from Greg and moved towards the living room, settling on the couch.

-Look, John will make his decision, but in the meantime, you have to give him his space: try not to text him, don’t go back to his father’s house, nor to the clinic... Take care of Hamish and try to build a relationship with him.

Just give him time…- Greg said from the kitchen, where he had begun looking for cutlery for their dinner.

-You should know better than anyone that I'm not good at waiting for things to happen-

Greg remained silent until he had brought all the various containers, plates forks and spoons into the living room.

-That’s true, but I trust you; I know you won't make mistakes this time- he said as he settled into John’s chair. -Now how about making me happy and eat something? -

The three men remained silent for the next ten minutes, Hamish and Greg almost voraciously attacking their own food, while Sherlock allowed himself a few bites of the chicken Masala and the vegetables placed on his plate, spending much of his time observing Lestrade, reading in his clothes, in the tension of his shoulders and in the dark circles under his eyes the problems that still haunt him.

"He’s scared" Sherlock finally said, breaking the silence.

Greg lifted his head from his plate and met his gaze.

-Who, John? -

-Mycroft.

That's why he categorically refuses to have children" he said.

Greg frowned, surprised by those words; everything could be said of his partner, but not that he let himself go to such a "human" feeling as fear.

"If I'm not mistaken, we were talking about your relationship with John" Greg said, trying to divert the conversation that, surely, would not be pleasant.

"Well, it's not the first time you've been wrong, and I'm sure it won't be the last, and since there's nothing I can say or do to change my situation at the moment, we can try to fix your relationship" the detective said, setting up a placid Hamish against his right shoulder.

"Since when do you care about my relationship with your brother?" asked Greg, his forehead now perpetually frowned, and his dinner forgotten.

"Believe me there's nothing that interests me less, but since we are going to work together again, I need your attention to be focused solely on work and not on silly sentimental problems- answered the detective.

-Hey, I don't think I offended you when we were talking about your relationship with John - the inspector scolded him.

The other made a gesture of impatience with his free hand and remained silent, certain that Greg would reopen the conversation once the reticence that accompanied that talk had been overcome, while giving a glance at Hamish to check that he was fine and finding him half asleep against his shoulder.

"What did you mean?" Greg finally asked.

Sherlock met Greg's gaze again and stared at him for a few moments before taking a deep breath: there was a reason they never faced that part of their lives, even when he and Mycroft were alone.

"What did Mycroft tell you about our father?" he asked.

Greg let himself go against the back of the armchair, aware that that conversation would bring nothing good.

-Nothing.

Everything I know about him, I know thanks to your mother's stories and the portrait Myc keeps in the living room... You two never talk about him-said Greg serious.

Sherlock nodded slowly, the inspector's words confirming his suspicions.

-When Mycroft was born, our father was the same age as my brother is now, if not a year or two younger.

Given the age difference between me and Mycroft, at the time of my birth, there was more than one person who believed he was my grandfather instead of my father- started Sherlock.

"Was he a good father?" asked Greg curiously.

-How would I know? I had no other terms of comparison-rebutted Sherlock defensive.

Greg nodded, realizing that, although Sherlock was there in front of him, ready to share a part of his life with the inspector, there was still a whole universe in which Greg was not allowed to peek.

-When our father died I was eighteen years old and Mycroft twenty-five; he was already engaged in his political rise and surrounded by minions ready to fulfill his every desire, but he managed to free himself from his commitments for two weeks and dealt with everything from financial management, to the reading of the will, to the reorganization of the estate before disappearing back into the corridors of Whitehall-

"What happened next?" asked Greg, almost fearing the answer.

Sherlock merely shrugged his shoulders.

"The rest is history: he became the British Government and I became a junkie" he replied with indifference.

"Why are you telling me all this?" the inspector asked.

Sherlock let go of a frustrated sigh.

-Isn't that obvious? Even Mycroft has to explain to you every little thing? -he asked, the first hints of impatience in the voice.

-Sherlock...-reprimanded Greg without turning his eyes away from the man's.

-When our father died we were young, maybe too young, and while I pretended to be fine while I started the most in-depth study of drugs ever seen up to that time, to stun me and forget what had happened, Mycroft transformed himself into the grey eminence of the British government...-

-Becoming invisible so that no one could hurt his feelings anymore-concluded Greg.

-My brother has no feelings... - commented Sherlock, standing up and settling Hamish, fast asleep, in his wicker basket, giving the other man time to come to terms with that new information and to make the next link.

-That’s why he doesn't want to have kids! He thinks we’re too old and he's scared of the idea that if we had a baby, he could die when it’s still a kid- Greg said staring at Sherlock.

The detective merely shrugged his shoulders once again to confirm his words.

"What a bloody idiot!" exclaimed Greg, in disbelief.

"What’s new?" Sherlock said, letting himself fall on the couch with his innate grace.

For a few moments in the living room silence returned, while Greg thought back in his mind about what they had said and how to solve that problem, and Sherlock moved his gaze alternately between Greg and his mobile phone, needing to know where John was and how he was.

-The real question in this whole situation, though, is why you feel this sudden need to become a father-the detective asked to get his mind away from his silent cell phone.

Greg sighed, at the same time frustrated and confused: why did he suddenly feel the call of fatherhood?

Perhaps because, just like Mycroft, he realized that time was passing faster than he had imagined a few years ago, because he was at the threshold of forty-five years and in his life, there was no special goal that would pass on his memory even after his death.

And what was wrong with wanting a child with one's partner?

Someone who had the great Holmes intelligence and their hidden and sharp humor, his eyes and Mycroft reddish-brown hair, someone to play football with or dress up as princesses, someone to love unconditionally and feel loved in the same way, without the fear of losing him or her for a wrong word or a missed gesture.

Was it really that wrong?

"I don't know" he said, aware that Sherlock wouldn't understand a fraction of what was stirring inside him, even though he could see it clearly on his face and in the way his right hand was shaking or some other similar nonsense. -First Emma... Then Hamish.

Is it a crime to wish that a piece of the man you love will continue to live after death? - he asked.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow in disbelief.

-Are you really asking my opinion on this?

Don't forget that we're talking about Mycroft, if it were up to me, there should be no trace of his passage on Earth- he answered caustic.

"Ah, just forget it!" said Greg annoyed, standing up and turning his back on him.

-Ask yourself rather if it's appropriate to risk what you already have for a silly fantasy-

"Isn't that what's happening to you and John?" asked the inspector, turning back to the other man.

"As you can see, we have never been happier...-comment sarcastic Sherlock.

-I was forced to make this decision, given the circumstances, and contrary to my accommodating nature, Mycroft does not like hassles- added with a purposeful tone that made the inspector understand that the matter was definitively concluded.

Greg nodded and for a few seconds stood motionless, not far from the window, not knowing what to do or say, until Sherlock freed him again from the weight of that choice.

-Now that we've unraveled your relationship with Mycroft, can we end this talk?

I don't want Hamish to have nightmares tonight... Why don't you update me on the latest cases you've had instead?

Mind you, just the interesting ones! -Sherlock said changing the subject.

Greg flashed a smile and returned to sit in John's chair, happy to be back on known ground and to have back the sarcastic and moderately rude man he always knew.

_______________________________

That night, a text arrived on John's cell phone.

The sender did not surprise him in the slightest, rather he was staggered that Sherlock had waited so long to storm him again with his requests to return home.

What surprised him even more was that when he finally decided to open it, after many hesitancies, the only thing he found was a multimedia link and the usual initials SH.

Intrigued, John opened the link and moments later his room was immersed in the sound of a keyboard.

It was a song he remembered from his teens, a group brought back to the fore thanks to a TV show, to which John had never paid much attention, but listening to the words of the singer, it was not difficult to understand why Sherlock had chosen it.

"I _can't fight this feeling any longer  
And yet I'm still afraid to let it flow  
What started out as friendship, has grown stronger  
I only wish I had the strength to let it show  
I tell myself That I can't hold out forever  
I said there is no reason for my fear  
Cause I feel so secure when we're together  
You give my life direction  
You make everything so clear_

Lying on his bed, John listened to that song several times, coming to imagine Sherlock's voice instead of the singer's, before interrupting the song, dropping his cell phone to the ground next to his bed and calling himself an idiot.

Forcing himself not to think about the clear meaning of the song and determined to take all the time he needed to make the right decision, John reached out his arm to the lamp next to the bed and turned it off, causing the room to fall into the dark.

Tomorrow he had an important appointment that would require his full attention and all his strength, he could not afford another sleepless night because of Sherlock Holmes.

____________________________

A "normal" person, at the end of a long day of work, full of commitments, has no other desire but to go home and lie on his bed forgetting the outside world for a couple of hours, lying on his bed in a dreamless sleep.

Gregory Lestrade had ceased to be a "normal" person from the very first moment his path had crossed with that of Sherlock Holmes first and Mycroft Holmes then.

Since then there have been no set schedules, regular lunches or parties, but "interesting" murders, puzzles, endless weeks spent behind his desk or running between a crime scene the morgue and the Yard, returning home only when a shower and a change of clothes was imperative.

That's why his marriage had broken down so fast.

To be completely honest with himself, however, Greg did not miss it, especially now that in his life there was Mycroft: if before many times he had found himself wondering to himself when the life of the police inspector had become so full of intelligences and strangled by bureaucracy, now Greg couldn’t really complain because most of the time he find himself breaking the rules to help and cover Sherlock’s actions.

A normal person, after leaving Baker Street, would have gone to his apartment for the first time in three days, instead of getting lost in the sporadic traffic that ran through London at night, driving aimlessly, lost in his thoughts with Sherlock's words still running in his head.

So, it was a surprise when he moved his eyes to his left, and he noticed that he had arrived in Vauxhall and, standing at a traffic light, saw the imposing building on the other side of the bridge, completely immersed in darkness to the point of seeming abandoned.

A honk behind him pulled him from his thoughts and forced him to move, making him decide at the same time.

Risky decision, but one that couldn't wait.

At the first intersection, Greg made a U-turn and went back until he was able to cross the bridge again and be on the right side, deliberately passing in front of a dozen surveillance cameras in order to announce his arrival.

He had only been to that building once before and, even at the time, he had to stop at the edge of the world that was swarming within it because he lacked the necessary authorization.

Mycroft often used that office, especially after the capture of Osama Bin Laden, as if he needed to be at the nerve point from which all the information started and arrived.

Slowing down slightly he stopped in front of a wooden gate on which hung a parking ban, which began to open the moment the roar of his engine settled on a quiet meowl.

It was absurd to think that he was about to enter that sacred place in a Scotland Yard patrol car while far more powerful and elegant cars had passed though that gate... A childhood dream shattered!

In the short seconds before the gate was fully opened, Greg glanced at his image into the mirror, unable to hold back a grimace at the sight of the deep dark circles under his eyes and the stubbles that covered his chin and cheeks.

He tried unnecessarily to brush his hair with his fingers but a few moments later he declared himself defeated and brought his hands back to the stirring wheel.

Finally, the gate was open and, with a slight touch to the accelerator, Greg gave strength again to the engine, entering a tunnel that, he was certain, would lead him to his destination.

Or to certain death for daring to stick his nose where he wasn't allowed.

After a few minutes, he found himself in an underground car park, completely clear of other vehicles; one person was there to greet him and, of course, escort him.

Greg turned off the engine, without bothering to properly park the patrol car, and got out, smiling at the beautiful woman who was a few feet away from him.

-I see I'm not the only one working late- he greeted her closing the car door.

Anthea curled the right corner of her mouth, the equivalent of a bright smile for the woman.

Despite Anthea's differences and obvious distrust of mankind, apart from Mycroft, Greg and Anthea had managed to create a convivial relationship; they would never become friends, they would almost certainly never spend an evening at the pub telling each other the most hidden secrets of their souls or funny stories about Mycroft, but at least it was nice to know that they were able to stay in the same room without slit their throats.

Moreover, it was important for Greg to know that the person charged with protecting Mycroft was highly qualified and, if necessary, a ruthless war machine.

A man is never too demanding when he cares about the safety of his loved one.

"It was a risky choice" she said.

Greg shrugged, trying to look calm, despite the growing feeling of breaking an unwritten rule.

-I got all the cameras on the Vauxhall Bridge.

If he had been busy or in another building, you would have let me know before I arrived- he answered.

Anthea again turned to him with her small smile and, without saying anything, turned and walked toward the elevators, forcing Greg to hurry up to narrow the distance between them.

-Is Agent 007 around? You shouldn't even introduce me, just pointing him to me if we happen to meet him in the hallways- Greg said to avoid silence.

"I don't think 00 agents usually walk the aisles for the public" said Anthea, her nose back in the BlackBerry.

"Hey, a man is still allowed to dream, isn't he?" retorted Greg, sinking his hands into the pockets of his pants.

The elevator door opened, and Anthea beckoned him to step out of the elevator, then remained in the cubicle.

"Remember the rest of the way?" she asked, looking up from her cell phone screen for a moment.

Greg nodded.

The woman nodded and pressed a button, causing the elevator doors to close between them.

Left alone, Greg took a deep breath and walked down the hall at the end of which was Mycroft's office, just for meetings with the public.

Once in front of the door, Greg took a deep breath and knocked, aware that the other man had already felt his presence, probably since the elevator doors had opened.

A murmur inside granted him access to the office and only then did Greg open the door: the office had not changed since the only time he had seen it, the same walls of fake wood, the three bookcases full of volumes, the sofa and the cream-colored armchair, separated from a tea table.

Entering the office, Greg turned to the farthest wall, where the writing desk was located, dark mahogany, so elegant and solid that it could survive even a bombing, two other chairs, these decidedly more comfortable, on the tones of the red wine, and an off fireplace (probably the entrance to the secret passageway leading Mycroft to the Quartermaster's headquarters)

Sitting behind his desk, making completely clear that Mycroft was in that office only for his visit, Mycroft Holmes looked as tired as Greg.

Despite his perfectly ironed shirt and creaseless suit, Greg could clearly see behind that mask: his partner’s face was also plagued by deep dark circles under his eyes, his face slightly hollowed out at the height of his cheeks, and his complexion had turned a weird shade of grey.

"Jesus Christ, when was the last time that you have eaten?" Greg asked, pausing in the center of the office.

Clearly surprised by that sentence (_didn't he expect my first words to be of concern for health? Idiot!_), Mycroft downplayed the situation with an evasive hand gesture.

-I had a cup of tea with John this afternoon...-

"I don't remember tea having any nutritional properties" Greg readily retorted. - How long? -he asked again.

"You shouldn't be here" Mycroft said, clinging to his authority.

Greg stared at him for a few moments, trying to figure out if Myc didn't really want him there or if it was a way to divert attention from his voluntary fast, before shrugging his shoulders.

-You knew I was coming, and you can always kick me out by 00 Agents anyway.

I'm sure it'll be an experience I'd remember all my life- the inspector ironically responded, dropping himself on one of the chairs in front of the desk.

A hinted smile and the defensive attitude that Mycroft had taken so far almost magically disappeared.

-I wouldn't be so sure. 00 Agents have their own methods to make you forget about your intrusion into their Headquarters-

Greg chuckled and the next moment Mycroft followed him, filling the room with laughter for a few moments.

“How are you Gregory? I didn’t have the opportunity to see you as much as I would have liked in the last few days" the British official asked him once he had calmed down.

Greg stared at him and shrugged his shoulders.

-Busy as usual with work... Also, this Sherlock and John thing worries me-answered Greg sincere.

-I'm sure they're going to solve their problems anytime soon.

So, you don't have to worry about them anymore- answered the other man quiet.

Greg nodded slowly, before staring at his partner for a few moments.

It was useless to pull it for any longer: he had come there, so now he had to deal with the problem and suffer the consequences that would come.

"Besides, I think I owe you an apology" Greg began.

Mycroft frowned imperceptibly his forehead, clearly caught by surprise.

-For what? -

-Don't play dummy, it’s never been one of your best talents... At least not with me-Greg scolded him.

Mycroft settled better in his chair, his back straighter with his most imposing figure, as if he did not want to leave room for possible attacks and joined his fingers a short distance from his face.

-I realized something was bothering you in the last few days, something that drove you away from me, leading both of us to desert our apartment... But I really don't know what it is.

I have carefully analyzed every moment spent together in the last few days, but I cannot understand what went wrong- Mycroft said in an honest tone.

It was enough for Greg to look in his eyes to know that the other was sincere; despite his great knowledge of mankind, there was still a sphere in which his partner was almost completely ignorant: despite the ability to recognize potential threats from the movement of an eyebrow or thanks to a nervous tic, both Holmes brothers were completely unable to handle their own emotions.

Perhaps the death of their father when they were both young had had more substantial effects than Sherlock had let out in his retelling, something that had led the two brothers to consider feelings as weights that could put them at a disadvantage with their enemies.

What was the point now to explain to him what caused the rift between them?

They would not have achieved anything; they would once again have two completely different opinions and probably only make the situation worse.

Mycroft was too important to risk losing their relationship for a "silly fantasy."

Upon reaching that decision, Greg smiled kindly to Mycroft.

-It's all right now.

It's true, there's been something that has bothered me in the last few days.

Actually, if I'm honest I couldn't think of anything else, but I decided it was better to let it go- Greg said sincere.

"Does this mean that the problem was not important?" asked Mycroft, clearly trying to fully understand the situation.

Greg shook his head.

-No, it's still important, but... -he said before stopping, looking for the most suitable words to help Mycroft understand. -When you are in a relationship, especially in an important relationship like ours, you have to carefully choose your own battles, know what you are willing to give up for the sake of the other... -

"I don't want you to give up something that's important to you because of me" Mycroft readily said.

Greg smiled benignly.

-I know that.

But I love you and I'm willing to do it because I'm convinced that what we have you and I will pay me back for the choice I made-said Greg stretching an arm on the desk, the palm of his hand upwards.

Mycroft stared at Greg’s hand a few moments before stretching his own arm and interlaced the fingers of their hands.

"Of course, I'm not allowed to ask you what has tormented you these days" Mycroft said, stroking the inside of Greg’s fingers with his own.

-You can do it, but I'm not ready to talk about it now that I've decided to turn the page... Maybe in a few months-

Mycroft nodded.

For a few moments the room was silent, while the two men indulged in small moments stolen from the outside world and "normality", until Greg covered his mouth with one hand, trying to hide a yawn.

-Okay, time to go home.

I need a shower and at least four hours of sleep.

Are you coming with me?" he asked, meeting his partner’s gaze.

"Unfortunately, I still have a few things that I absolutely need to take care of before I can come home" Mycroft said.

Greg nodded, freeing his hand from the other man’s hand and standing up, stretching slightly.

"I'll wait for you at home then" he said as he walked around the desk to kiss gently his partner's lip, the first kiss after three days of voluntary isolation.

Greg gave him one last smile, before making his way to the office door.

-Gregory- called Mycroft's voice.

Greg partially turned to the desk and waited.

"What will happen when our relationship is no longer enough?" he asked in the usual pragmatic tone with which he dealt with the country's problems.

"It's not going to happen" the inspector said.

-That's why you're the optimist of the couple and I'm the realist... What will happen to us, Gregory?" Mycroft asked again.

Greg took a deep breath and sank his hands into the pockets of his pants, hoping that that moment would never happen.

-Then we're going to sit at this desk again, have a long conversation, and together we're going to decide.

Does that sound like an acceptable plan? -Greg asked with the same kind smile.

Mycroft held his gaze for a few moments before nodding briefly.

-I'm waiting for you at home. Try not to spend the whole night here - Greg said, leaving the office the next moment.

________________________________

Despite his good intentions, John had spent most of the previous night staring at the ceiling, thinking about the lyrics of the song Sherlock had sent him.

He had managed to fall asleep around two o'clock at night, slipping into confused and almost imperceptible dreams that had left no trace of themselves when he woke up.

When he opened his eyes again, the little light coming from the window confirmed the time clearly visible on his wristwatch: six o'clock in the morning.

Aware that he would not be able to regain his sleep, John let go of a frustrated groan and got out of bed, headed like every morning to the bathroom for the morning shower that would help him to clear his mind.

Once shaved and dressed, he went downstairs and had a quick breakfast before putting on his coat, checking that his wallet and house keys were in his pockets, where he had left them the day before and went out.

Aldershot Cemetery was, as was often the case in small towns, embedded in the main church: graves hundreds of years old mingled with those decades old or a few months old; access was allowed via a small wrought-iron gate further closed by a chain with a padlock.

You don't live in close contact with Sherlock Holmes for almost two years without at least learning how to pick a lock.

Looking quickly around, John picked the lock and moved the chain just enough to open a single part of the gate, entering into the small courtyard.

Although almost a year had passed since his last visit, his steps guided him to his destination without any hesitation, stopping only when he was faced with a black grave, gleaming for the morning frost.

"Hi mom" John said softly.

It was strange to think that this small tombstone could contain the ever-active cyclone that had been Elisabeth Watson, a woman genetically unable to stay in the same place for more than two minutes in a row.

"I'm sorry I haven't come to see you lately, but I've been busy" John said, clearly seeing his mother's expression in response to those words.

-I know… Do you remember Sherlock? I think I told you about him a couple of times- he said to her shaking his head the next moment. -Who am I kidding... I must have made your ears bleed by telling you stories about him.

Anyway, he's back... yes, I know, he was dead before and now he’s alive, weird, isn't it?

And he also has a more than a valid explanation for this trick...

You know I can imagine you clearly scolding him for his behavior? I don't know what I would give to hear your colorful reproaches and see his face- John commented, sinking his hands into the pockets of his coat to fight the cold and smiling slightly.

For a few moments he stared at the black stone in front of him, before taking a long deep breath: he had come here because he needed to talk to his mother, to tell her what was going on in his life, he could not hold back now that came the most difficult part of the story.

-Sherlock is back, but he's not alone... He has a baby with him.

A beautiful seven-month-old baby who looks a lot like him- John added with a sad smile as baby Hamish’s face came to his mind.

-And I don't know what to do because... Yes, you are right: I'm totally in love with Sherlock... You know? You and he would have got along very well once your lecture was over.

He continues to act as if nothing has changed, as if this child is not important, but in the meantime, he has decided to raise him instead of entrusting him to a foster family.

No, don't get me wrong, I'm glad that at least once in his life he's taken his responsibilities, but is it really so wrong to try to make him understand that a child changes your life? -John said staring at the tombstone almost waiting for an answer.

-I also know that this child would be my only chance to start a family in case I decided to stay with Sherlock, but...

How do I forgive him?

He could have slept with any other woman and I would have forgiven him, why did he choose her?

The worst part is that I miss him so much...

And it's not even for the baby, because Hamish is adorable, he's so sweet, and I'm sure you'd be over the moon, especially because his name is Hamish... Yes, I know, don't start…-

A smile appeared on John's face, completely inappropriate given where he was.

-You know I can hear you as if you were next to me “_Oh Johnny, why do you always complicate everything?"_

Believe me, Mom, I've been asking myself the same thing for the last few days.

It's just that life gets complicated with Sherlock, for him normality is boring...- John commented.

John watched the sky clear, despite few scattered clouds, and glanced at his wristwatch: he had to hurry if he wanted to get to London on time.

-What am I going to do, mom? What should I do?

Is it really wrong to hope to have what you and Dad had? -he asked her.

He let go another sigh and threw his head backwards, looking for a few seconds at the sky above himself before returning to lay his gaze over the tombstone.

-I have to go, or I'm going to be late for work.

So, I'll leave you some time to think about the best solution to my problem- he commented with a small smile.

John approached the tomb until he could place his left hand over the tombstone, a sudden sadness closing his throat.

“I miss you so much mom" he whispered to her, before clearing his throat and taking on the military pose that helped him drive away moments of weakness.

With his back straight and his shoulders perfectly aligned, John once more touched the words on the headstone in one last gesture of greeting before turning around and walking toward the cemetery exit.

__________________________

"_I love you anyhow  
And I don't care if you don't want me  
I’ m yours right now_

_I put a spell on you  
Because you ‘re mine_”

When that afternoon John had received a second link with Sherlock’s monogram as a signature, a small curiosity had accompanied the few seconds before and at the beginning of the song, and a little amused smile had appeared on his face as he listened to it, to the point that he had not been able to resist writing a text on his phone.

_Since when did you become a pop_ _music expert_? -_ JW_

He didn’t have to wait more than ninety seconds before the answer, and once again a smile appeared on his lips.

_Thanks to_ _a sleepless night, Google and a special_ _little_ _helper, it seems that I _can _achieve unexpected results. –SH_

John smiled and made to put his cell phone aside, but a sudden idea crossed his mind.

_I put a spell on you… Does this mean I'm finally going to get you to make_ _a decent cup of tea? –JW_

He had not yet put his phone on the desk that it was already vibrating in his hand.

_Pay attention John! I'm the one who put a spell on you, so I could finally enjoy my tea without having to listen to your usual grumbles. –SH_

A normal person would have been offended by that text, but John had stopped considering himself "normal" since he first met Sherlock Holmes, which is why he found nothing strange when his entertained laugh exploded in the silent office.

____________________________

“_If they asked me, I could write a book  
About the way you walk and whisper and look  
I could write the preface on how we met  
So the world would never forget_

_And the simple secret of the plot  
Is just to tell them that I love you a lot  
Then the world discovers as my book ends  
How to make two lovers a friends_”

The text of the following day made him think for a long time, leading him to listen again to the song Sherlock had sent him, isolating himself on the entire journey back to Aldershot, listening in sequence all of the three songs that the detective had sent him.

There was clearly a common thread, with which Sherlock tried to make him aware of those feelings to which he could not give voice in person but which he knew were important to John.

Several times the doctor had wondered in those days how Sherlock was dealing with the many changes that occurred during last week, how he was adapting to life with Hamish, if he had already succumbed to one of his absurd whims when the child had reacted in an unexpected way, if he was eating and sleeping enough, but those worries were not enough to convince him to return to Baker Street.

It would have been no use making a small visit and then returning to Aldershot; he would come home only after deciding about his future.

In the meantime, he had thrown himself into work, especially working to recover an ultrasound machine for the visit he had promised Baby Girl and making the usual medical examination on the homeless people, finding that peace that in other aspects of his life were completely lacking.

It had been four days since he left Baker Street and because of the promise he made to Baby Girl, for the first time that morning he needed Sherlock’s help.

Sitting at the kitchen table, a half-empty cup of tea in front of himself, John stared at his phone for a few minutes, looking for the right words to start the conversation; their relationship, thanks to Sherlock's songs was not as cold as at first, but they had not yet returned to being "John & Sherlock", so how would he deal with the issue?

Moments later, the doctor shook his head and called himself an idiot: Sherlock would have simply asked him what he needed without too many pleasantries and with the certainty of seeing his wishes granted.

Maybe that was the right approach...

After taking a deep breath, even if Sherlock was not there in front of him, John squeezed his fingers around his phone and opened the conversation with the detective.

_I have ensured that an ultrasound machine is delivered to Baker Street; will you be home today, or do I have to ask Mrs. Hudson if she can handle it? –JW_

Maybe the tone had been too formal, but John wanted to be clear and avoid misunderstandings.

Sherlock text came just as his father entered the kitchen, giving him a nod.

_I'm going to be home. What time is Baby Girl and Boss expected to arrive? –SH_

_6:30 p.m. –JW_

_Everything will be ready by then. Will you come with them? –SH_

_I'll try to get there earlier. I’ll see you later. –JW_

Looking up from his phone, John noticed that his father was staring at him cautiously.

He cleared his throat, strangely embarrassed to have been discovered on the phone with Sherlock and drank the last sip of tea from his mug.

"Today I have a consultation in the city in the late afternoon, so don't wait up for me" John said, looking back at the older man.

Mr. Watson merely shrugged his shoulders.

"I wasn't going to" he answered.

For a few moments silence fell between the two men, but John knew his father enough to know that there was something the other had to say and that both of them would not leave that room until everything was said and done.

"What's up Dad?" he asked.

Mr. Watson sighed and stared at John for a few seconds before speaking.

"Are you going to stay here for a long time?" asked the elderly parent.

John shrugged his shoulders, only partially surprised by that question.

"I don't know" he said, sincere. "I don't know."

“Johnny you're my son, there's always going to be a place for you here if you need it, but this isn't your home” Mr. Watson said, interrupting mid-sentence.

John open his mouth to speak but saw clearly that the man had not yet finished.

His father's piercing eyes rested once again on him, staring lovingly and sadly at John for a few moments before speaking.

"Do you remember what I told you when you got sick?" he asked.

John looked away, suddenly shameful, as his mind crowded with painful moments where his father was his only safe haven.

With his gaze still low, John nodded.

“He’s alive" his father continued.

"It’s complicated dad" John retorted as he stood up, a hand clenched along his hips.

Mr. Watson tilted his head slightly to the right.

-If you think about it, it's not.

You knew how he was like when you decided to turn your friendship into something else- the older man pointed out to him.

John met the elder parent's gaze again and sustained his stare unable to find an answer.

His father was absolutely right: he knew what he was up against by agreeing to start a relationship with Sherlock, actually it was the idea of that challenge that excited him the most, the possibility that he could succeed where everyone else so far had failed.

"Do you think your mother and I never had any problems?" he asked.

The doctor stared at him clearly surprised.

"I never noticed anything" John said almost whispering.

-Just because you didn't know where to look: every time I went fishing?

Or when I was away from home for cooking classes around England? -Mr. Watson said, crossing his arms to his chest.

John looked at his father in disbelief.

-That was a lie? -

-Of course, it was a lie! I wasn't going anywhere, just a few miles away at the Rose and Crown... -

"Mrs. Halliwell's pub?" asked John even more surprised.

How could he never notice anything? If all this had happened before his eyes without him noticing, Sherlock must have been right all along when he called him an idiot!

** _You see but you don't observe, John._ **

Mr. Watson nodded.

-We would have a fight and I would leave slamming the door behind me and in a couple of hours a bag with my clothes would arrive to the pub.

Once we were separated for three weeks and when I came back home your mother got pregnant with you...-commented the man with a small smile on his lips, lost in his own memories.

John shook his head, trying to delete the images that were pushing to imprint themselves in the long-term memory of his brain.

"But you always came back" he said a few moments later.

-Of course, I did.

No matter how important an argument might seem or how convinced I was that I was right at the time, there was nothing that mattered more to me than your mother and you two-Mr. Watson answered sincere.

His father shut up, and in that instant, John saw him for what he really was: a hero.

A man who had loved the same woman all his life, despite disagreements and arguments, managing to avoid the danger of monotony and without being tempted by the novelties and dangers of the outside world; a man who had remained with his partner until the very last and who now missed her every day.

"The person you love is alive, John, do you remember how much you suffered when you thought you had lost him forever?" he asked.

John nodded.

-As if I could forget it... - he murmured.

Mr. Watson nodded as well.

-Think wisely before you blew this chance…It may be the last one you have-

John breathed deeply and rubbed his chin thoughtful before smiling a little.

-Thank you, Dad-

-Don’t mention it.

Now stop feeling sorry for yourself or you'll be late for work- Mr. Watson said before focusing again on his breakfast. 

During the train journey that would take him to London, John reflected lengthy on the conversation he had with his father, bringing back to the surface a memory he had tried to bury in the meanderings of his mind, bound to a dark period of his existence, when nothing made sense anymore and everything around him reminded him of the one person he needed, but who at the same time he had lost forever.

His father had been by his side during the days spent staring at the wallpaper as if it was hiding a coded message between the brown shades and during the nights were nightmares will wake him up in the middle of the night.

Only a parent's love could have endured the havoc John had made of himself at that time.

And it was one morning, after a sleepless night, sitting in his armchair, his gaze fixed on the now perpetually empty armchair in front of him, that John had felt his father big and reassuring hand fall on his left shoulder.

He had looked up at his father's face and for an instant the two men had stared at each other in silence, until Mr. Watson had taken a long breath.

-I'm not going to tell you that it's going to be over soon, and everything's going to get better.

This pain that now seems to consume everything will fade with time, but it will never disappear completely.

Maybe you will spend days without thinking about Sherlock, until something completely disconnected from him or what you had together will bring him back to your mind-

"Then how do you go on without going crazy?" asked John in a raspy voice for long hours of silence.

-You learn to live with it... There will be other men, other people who will make you feel good or who will help you feel less lonely.

You should never survive your loved one, but over time the pain fades to make room for the memory of the time you spent together, what you have been for each other, making separation bearable-

At the time those words, despite being the result of the experience, had not been of much help, but now John found himself reflecting again on that speech: Sherlock was alive.

Despite all the pain, the labor he had subjected himself to during his absence Sherlock was alive and well, again in Baker Street, ready to take their relationship to the next level, to take that extra step that for eighteen months had been a inaccessible territory in his mind, and over the next three years he had turned into a valley of regrets and remorse.

Was it right to abandon any possible involvement for what had happened with Irene?

Once again, the idea of Sherlock and Irene hit him in the stomach like a burning blade, blocking his breath for a few seconds.

That’s his real problem… Irene.

John got out of the train and walked along the platform at Waterloo station.

Until he could get rid of that image and the anger that raided him every time, he couldn't think of a possible future with Sherlock.

Trying to clear his mind of those troublesome thoughts, John shoved his earbuds into his ears and turned up the volume of the iPod to the maximum, choosing the loudest song, certain that it would leave him with a headache and unable to concentrate.

The rest of the day passed quickly, one patient after another, focusing completely on his work and without giving himself any other distractions other than a short lunch to avoid arriving exhausted at the end of the shift.

When the last patient's file was also perfectly filled out and delivered to Stephanie for the archive, John knew he had no other excuse to stay at the clinic: it was time to confront Sherlock.

After recovering his coat and bag, John briefly said goodbye to his colleagues and walked the short journey to Baker Street.

Four days earlier, the last time he had seen Sherlock, they had had one of the ugliest fights, second only to their clash after his return to the Land of the Living... What should he expect now?

How would Sherlock behave?

Would he pretend nothing happened or would he try to reopen the debate and convince him to come home?

What about him?

What did John expect? What did John want from that meeting?

Did he want Sherlock to behave as usual, ignoring the changes that had taken place in recent weeks, or did he unconsciously want the detective to reopen the argument so that they could finally find a solution?

The doctor let out a frustrated sigh; is it possible that everything should be so complicated when Sherlock was involved?

Without even realizing it, his feet had led him to Baker Street and, after a few moments of groping in which he searched his pockets pointlessly for his keys, he found himself forced to knock on the door.

The door opened instantly, while still the sound rang in the foyer, leading John to raise his head slightly to meet Sherlock's gaze.

-John...-greeted the detective in a whisper, his gaze fixed on John’s face.

The doctor gave him a slight nod with his head, never interrupting their stare contest.

-Sherlock-greeted him in return, trying to keep the tone of his voice neutral.

In the short interval that it took the detective to get away from the door, John catalogued all the possible information he could read on the man's face: the hair, more rebellious than usual, perhaps because of Hamish, the nervous movements of the limbs that showed clearly his anxiety and the uncertainty that accompanied that meeting, the slightly hollowed face from which John could deduce the days spent without food.

"You're early" said Sherlock, standing in the hall, waiting for John to close the door behind himself.

-I thought it was best to come earlier to do a little revision... It’s been a few years since I last had to do an ultrasound- confessed John, hands behind his back in a military pose that always put him at ease in difficult situations.

Sherlock nodded, walking up the stairs, promptly followed by the doctor, letting the silence drop, until they were safe within the familiar walls of their apartment.

"Would you like a cup of tea?" asked Sherlock, promptly heading to the kitchen.

John, standing on the threshold, shook his head, his gaze fixed on the living room to catch every slight change that occurred during his absence, noticing the obvious action that took place in a few days: what was initially called the "den" of two bachelor men, which then turned into Sherlock Holmes' In Memoriam Museum, had undergone a further transformation, becoming a baby-proof apartment.

The living room bore the most obvious evidence of this, with various baby clothes abandoned on the sofa shoulder pad, a small swing between the sofa and Sherlock's armchair, at a safe distance from the tea table, toys scattered around the floor and a soft carpet with a music box of rag animals.

"Where is Hamish?" he asked, noticing the baby’s absence.

-He’s with Molly.

I thought it would be better for Baby Girl if he wasn't here, plus Molly and Dimmock need to practice-answered Sherlock from the kitchen.

John nodded and briefly met the black-haired man’s eyes, discovering himself curious: could a new transformation occur during his absence?

Is it possible that those small and precious glimmers of humanity that until now were reserved for a select few were now evident to all?

During his absence, a new chapter in the life of the Apartment B at 221 Baker Street had begun, and suddenly John was jealous that he was not a part of it as usual.

John cleared his throat, taking that thought away from his mind and took off his coat, turning his back on Sherlock.

-Um. Ok... I better start to...-he said unable to finish the sentence.

"Of course- Sherlock answered to remove him from embarrassment, sitting in front of his microscope.

In the forty minutes that followed the apartment was silent, interrupted only by the noise of turned pages of the volumes consulted by John, bringing back to the doctor's mind the many evenings that he and Sherlock had spent in a pleasant silence, one engaged in his all-important and wacky experiments and the other immersed in reading a paperback or busy with his laptop until once again, like so many other times, the bell rang in the living room breaking that harmony.

John looked up from the volume on his legs and glanced at his roommate, obviously immersed in his own work, forcing him to stand up and quickly descend the stairs to the front door.

In the empty apartment, Sherlock looked up from the microscope and, after taking a deep breath as if he needed to regroup the pieces of himself that had run down the stairs with John, stood up and walked in measured steps towards his bedroom to get the ultrasound machine.

Upon his return to the living room, three voices engaged in pleasantries came to his ear and moments later John appeared again on the threshold stepping aside to bring in Baby Girl and Boss.

_Always a gentleman...._

-Hello Sherlock- Baby Girl greeted him with a shy smile.

The detective nodded his head to the girl, quickly noticing the miserable state of her clothes, her cheeks red from the cold wind, her hair greasy and her body too thin and without any improvement since their last encounter.

-Hello Baby Girl, how are you?

You look better than the last time we saw each other- Sherlock said.

It was a lie, but he was aware that the truth in this case would annoy not only Baby Girl, but also John.

The girl smiled again, with greater conviction, and glanced at Boss.

-I followed the doctor's orders!

Also, Boss has been looking after me like if it was a proper nanny to make sure I was well-commented the girl.

John allowed himself a slight laugh before putting a hand on Boss's right arm.

-Well done Boss-

-To be honest Doc, I didn't want to hear your lecture if I hadn't followed your recommendations...- jokingly retorted the other man, making John laugh.

Sherlock stared intently at the doctor, blissfully enjoying for those brief moments the sound of his laugh, terribly jealous that it had been a stranger and not him to provoke that wonderful sound.

-Okay, okay, okay, do we want to start? I bet you can't wait to see your baby-asked John pulling himself together and staring once again at Baby Girl.

The girl nodded, following John into the living room and sitting on the couch, suddenly cleared of all the tomes of medicine and Hamish's clothes.

-I couldn't sleep last night from the excitement. Do you think it will be possible to see if it is a boy or a girl? - asked Baby Girl lying carefully on the couch.

The doctor nodded.

"At this stage of pregnancy, if the baby helps us, I'm sure it won't be a problem" he said, bringing the machine closer to himself.

Baby Girl lifted the sweater that covered her belly and John applied the contrast gel before taking the wand and moving it over her belly.

For a few moments the ultrasound monitor was completely green, with gray spots appearing and then disappearing the next moment, until suddenly the screen turned black and a gray oblong spot appeared in that darkness.

"Here he is" said John with a triumphant smile.

"Is this my baby?" asked Baby Girl clearly shocked.

The doctor nodded, moving a finger to the monitor.

"This" he said, pointing to a particular point -It’s the head... This is an arm... Looks like he's stretching, look, he's got a leg up in mid-air. It doesn't have to be very comfortable in there-said John, making the girl laugh.

"Is she healthy, Doc?" asked Boss, his eyes fixed on the monitor.

John focused on the monitor for a few moments, moving the wand only a few millimeters and pressed another button on the console.

-According to the calculations it is a little small for a child of twenty-six weeks, but usually the firstborns are always small and in this particular case the figures do not surprise me, but we still have thirteen weeks before childbirth and during the eighth month the fetus always has a further growth.

The spine doesn't seem to have any problems... Let's see if I can...-John said, pressing a different button on the console.

The next moment the screen zoomed in on a section and in the room echoed the fetus' heartbeat, causing tears to rush down Baby Girl's cheeks.

-Damn it! It’s really fast. You seem to have horses galloping in there" Boss said, clearing his voice immediately afterward to hide his emotional reaction.

The girl let go a happy laugh and returned to stare at the monitor where the image of the child had appeared again.

-It looks like the stretching session is over... Now we’re sucking our fingers.

She's really a busy girl" John said.

Baby Girl looked away from the screen and stared at the man in disbelief.

"It’s a girl?" she asked in a whisper.

John nodded.

-If I am not a complete failure with this procedure, in thirteen weeks you will have a little girl-John said to her in a reassuring tone, aware of all the difficulties that Baby Girl would have to face immediately after giving birth.

The girl nodded, her eyes shiny again, before casting one last look at the monitor.

Relieved that he was able to complete the ultrasound without embarrassment and without a hitch, John began the process of printing some pictures of the little girl for Baby Girl while she cleaned the gel on her belly thanks to some wet wipes.

"Okay, luckily it all went well" he said, standing up and giving the printed pictures to Boss.

"Is there anything I can do to help her?" asked Baby Girl, slowly rising to her feet.

-Keep doing what you're doing, we will continue with our weekly appointments and I want to be informed immediately in case there is something wrong.

In this situation, one is never too careful" he said, placing a hand on the girl's shoulder.

Baby Girl nodded with conviction.

-I'm going to do my best, I promise- she said.

-Then what's going to happen? -

Sherlock's unexpected question led the other three to turn around and look to the corner where the man had retired after carefully observing the ultrasound.

John had completely forgotten the man's presence in the room, such was his focus on Baby Girl, the little girl and the procedure.

Actually, finding him there was a surprise since usually something as boring as an ultrasound would not entertain Sherlock for more than five seconds.

"I think your knowledge of human biology stretches enough to come to the right conclusion: in thirteen weeks Baby Girl will go into labor and... - said John trying to maintain a neutral tone.

-And the baby will be here.

Then what will happen? -asked the detective again.

John frowned.

-What are you talking about Sherlock? -

The black-haired man held his gaze for a few seconds before letting go of a frustrated sigh, moving his eyes now on Boss now on Baby Girl, who followed the conversation carefully.

-Why do I always have to explain everything, even the most obvious things?

Will you ask for help from social services or some welfare association, Baby Girl? -Sherlock asked, posing his piercing gaze on the girl who shook her head resolutely.

-No, I will not.

They would take my little girl away from me- she answered promptly.

The detective nodded.

"How do you plan to provide for your needs and those of your little girl living on the streets of London?" he asked her in a calm tone.

"I have a blanket and at first kids don't need a lot of things... - Baby Girl started.

-Wrong.

Believe me, I have discovered firsthand how wrong this statement is.

You have no idea how much diapers and clothes they need, not counting bottles, but in this you are advantaged since you can breastfeed her. 

So, what are you going to do considering that this little girl is the reason you can't go back to your family? -Sherlock asked trying not to be too harsh.

"Hey!" Boss scolded him, ready to defend what he now considered like a daughter.

-Sherlock...- John admonished him, hoping that that was enough to stop the avalanche that seemed imminent and that it would do serious damage if not contained.

-I can take care of myself. Boss will help me-rebutted Baby Girl stubbornly.

"Of course I will" Boss reassured her.

"And the other homeless people will help me" she added, clearly trying to convince herself more than the detective.

Sherlock shrugged.

-Of course, the first few days the novelty will fill them with a spirit of solidarity, and they will try to help you in some way, but then when they will have to choose whether to help you and your little girl or help themselves...

It is clear what the choice will be.

Not forgetting the possibility of your daughter getting sick, the chances are high living on the street, this will bring your case to the attention of Social Services, but a good knowledge of the streets of London could buy you some time and make you disappear from their attention for a while, at least until you decide to use your daughter to beg like other beggars before you...-continued undaunted Sherlock, never abandoning Baby Girl’s eyes.

"Sherlock stop it, shut up!" John reproached him again, feeling an unexpected rage running through his veins.

"I would never do that!" Baby Girl replied almost hysterically.

-Then stop being selfish and start thinking seriously about what's best for her!

All of you are so focused on the birth, that you haven't spent a single moment worrying about what's going to happen when this little girl is here.

Baby Girl, I know it's not pleasant to hear it and even less to think about it, but you have to start considering your options, having in mind what is best for her and not what you would like.

She didn't choose to come into the world, but now she has the right to have the best of what you can give her even if this will involve separating you from her-concluded the detective in a calm and serious voice at the same time.

-SHERLOCK SHUT UP! STOP IT! - exclaimed John unable to hold back further.

But by now it was too late: the dam had collapsed, crushing Baby Girl under the weight of reality.

Boss's reassuring embrace that had rushed to console her would not help her or protect her from the horrible scenarios that Sherlock's words had now implanted in her mind; a hug would certainly not suffice to erase them or to ward off the bad thoughts that those words would bring with them.

John and Sherlock stared at each other for a few moments, Baby Girl's quiet sobs breaking a silence laden with electricity and unspoken words, until Sherlock turned with an elegant gesture, shrugged his shoulders to the rest of the audience and took refuge in his own bedroom, the door closed to temporarily protect him from the storm that would soon hit.

Clearly upset by what had happened in the living room, the detective dropped himself like dead weight on his bed, fighting against the desire to smoke.

** _Idiots. All of them!_ **

Why scold him if he had only said the truth?

It was terribly obvious, almost to the limit of boredom, what had happened in the living room just now: why had no one had the balls so far to deal with that topic?

It wasn’t the first time that he was labeled the bad guy, and after all, it was the label that hurt him the least, but is it possible that people always needed a scapegoat?

Both Boss and John were clearly aware that Baby Girl could not take care of that child, not if she kept living on the streets...

Social services would take her daughter away within hours, just as long as it took for some good English citizen to call up Scotland Yard's number at the sight of the little newborn girl wrapped in a dirty blanket on a cold winter's day.

How could they be so stupid? Sherlock wondered once more, as he sat up and repeatedly passed his fingers between his black curls in a raged gesture.

-SHERLOCK! SHERLOCK! -

John's voice turned him away from his thoughts, forcing him to stand up and approach the bedroom door, aware that if he didn't get an answer, John wouldn't hesitate to storm in his room.

Recomposing and hiding his anger behind the usual mask of indifference, Sherlock opened the door and stood in the entranceway that separated his room from the living room, instantly finding John, a few meters from himself, standing between the sofa and the desk they used to share.

"Can you tell me what the hell happened?" the doctor asked him as soon as he was aware of his presence.

"Don't you imagine?" asked Sherlock, his clenched fists sunk into the pockets of his pants.

-Sherlock, I don't really want to waste time with your riddles. It took me half an hour to calm Baby Girl!

What the fuck were you thinking? -he asked again.

"It was time for someone to really tell her how things were" said the man deliberately cryptic.

-And of course, you decided to take on this task because you were the most suitable person...-said John caustic, letting all his frustration shine through more and more.

-I'm never the best person for this kind of thing, but in the end this task always falls on my shoulders... When it comes to getting the truth out, no one is better than me-

-The truth? Who the hell asked you to do anything? -asked John irritated.

"No one, but no one ever does" said Sherlock, shrugging his shoulders in a careless gesture.

-Do you even realize what you've done? -

-Of course, it was time for Baby Girl to open her eyes on her situation instead of basking in stupid illusions that would not help her at all- he replied perfectly at ease, despite the seethed glare that did not seem intent on abandoning him.

\- To be honest, you let me down John: being a doctor you should have been the first one to point out from the beginning that the possibility of keeping the baby was practically non-existent, instead you allowed Baby Girl to cultivate this stupid and useless fantasy...

Was it my absence that made your work so poor? -he asked him, knowing that it would infuriate his roommate more.

Right now, knowing that John was enraged, really angry with him was a positive factor: Sherlock knew that John would never abandon a discussion in half when his anger towards the detective had reached these levels.

Moreover, the anger meant that there was still hope: despite the detachment, changes and continuous secrets that seemed to want to separate them, the doctor was still there, ready to lose his voice screaming to make him understand that he had misbehaved.

"You stupid moron" John said, shaking his head. "With your arrogant ways and your opinionated air...

Do you really think I'm so dumb or so lost without you that I can't do my job anymore?

I always knew Baby Girl would never be able to keep the baby, I certainly didn't need your huge intelligence to get there!

But you can't cause unnecessary stress to a pregnant woman, especially in a particular and risky pregnancy like Baby Girl's.

One slightest mistake and despite Boss's trust in me, she would have disappeared or refused any further checkups, further complicating the situation.

I would have let her believe in flying pigs if it helped her! - John yelled, pointing a finger at the detective.

"So, what were you waiting for?" asked Sherlock in a calm voice, aware that this further annoyed John.

-I was waiting until the birth.

After the baby would be here, Baby Girl would have been more reasonable, and she would have realized that she would never make it alone with a newborn girl on the streets of London.

She would listen to me and Boss and the three of us would have found a solution... But once again, you had to ruin everything.

Congratulations! - John added, turning his back and moving a slightly trembling hand through his hair.

Those words were the final confirmation to the suspicion that had tormented Sherlock throughout the medical examination.

How could he not understand it before?

"You should have told me" Sherlock said, entering the living room.

An ironic laugh rang out in the room, before John turned slightly to meet the black-haired man’s face once again.

-Why would I? Because we have this wonderful relationship without secrets? Or because you become an expert on the joys of fatherhood thanks to Hamish? -John asked him biting.

-Are you still talking about Baby Girl or is it finally time to talk about us? – asked Sherlock, regardless of the venomous tone of the blonde.

He had waited days for a new confrontation, had been silent, almost like he was sitting in a corner, with the constant hope of a message from John and, finally, now that a chance had opened up for him, he would not let it slip.

-Fuck you Sherlock! -

John's face hardened instantly, and the man turned quickly toward the door.

Moving almost as fast, Sherlock passed the couch and climbed on to the table in front of it to regain the lost meters and arrive at the door at the same time as John.

-No.

You've never run away from a difficult situation, and I won’t allow you to do it now" Sherlock said, closing the half open door with a thud.

Grabbing John's sweater with both hands, Sherlock turned him around until John found himself against the wall, immediately stuck between the wall and the detective's long limbed and muscular body.

-You need to talk to Mycroft: he can find the right candidates, do his routine checks, so that in these thirteen weeks Baby Girl will meet the aspirants parents and choose the couple that seems most suited to her needs.

This way we will know that the child is in the right care.

If that's really what you want...- added Sherlock staring at John's face.

-Us? Since when do you care?

And what the hell does that mean? -muttered John clearly uneasy because of their excessive closeness and Sherlock's words.

Is it possible that once again the detective understood his deep-down desires?

-For God’s sake John! I saw you!

Everyone was staring at the screen, but I was looking at you.

I know you've become attached to this little girl, despite the professional ethics that prohibits you to get involved with your patients, and I know why you haven't yet advanced the possibility of adoption with Baby Girl-Sherlock said in a calm voice.

"And I bet you're dying to tell me... - John commented, hoping with all of himself that sarcasm could hide the terror he felt to see those stupid thoughts unmasked.

A tapered hand gently stroked his hair, taking him completely by surprise, and leading him to hold his breath, almost waiting for a slap immediately after the gentle touch.

-Because you were lonely and sad, and you convinced yourself that this was your last chance to be happy, but mostly because you have a noble and kind heart and you thought this was the only possible solution to help the little girl's future without Baby Girl losing sight of her daughter.

But this isn't your only chance... Not anymore.

You've got me and Hamish now—Sherlock said moving his face closer to John, the tip of his nose stroking John’s cheek, letting the silence fall.

** _How can this man read inside him every time? Why in_ ** ** _ the eyes of Sherlock Holmes were his feelings, his fears, his most _ ** ** _hidden desires so clear?_ **

Once again, as a few days earlier, Sherlock was offering him everything he had ever wanted, even when he was not yet aware of it, but John Watson, former Captain in Her Majesty's Northumberland Fusiliers, after having survived explosions, snipers, mad criminals determined to kill him, perhaps had finally found the only weapon capable of destroying him.

"Ah, really?" John asked, charging his voice with disbelief, hoping with all of himself that he had managed to hide the turmoil of emotions that was stirring within himself.

Clearly annoyed, Sherlock freed the sweater from his grasp and took a few steps back, letting a frustrated groan slip through his slightly open lips.

-Stop being a fool!

You know perfectly well what my feelings for you are... -Sherlock said, abandoning for the first time that calm and aloof air that had sustained him throughout their discussion.

-No, not really.

But to be honest I don't want to talk about it now; it's late and I have to go home-said John fixing his own sweater.

-THIS IS YOUR HOME! -exploded Sherlock, arms wide open to indicate the living room and all the objects in it- Your things are still here, your clothes, your precious RAMC mug, you just have to look around to notice your presence in every room of this apartment.

Stop being scared and come home-

Before John could find an appropriate answer, Sherlock was again in front of him, in his personal space, the muscular body pressed against him from his chest to his hips, both hands against the door at the height of the doctor's blonde head.

-Everything you've ever wanted, what we talked about... You, me, a family, a life full of action and adrenaline... You just have to admit that you miss me and Hamish, because we desperately miss you...-Sherlock confessed honest as few other times in his life.

Unable to control the irregular heartbeat of his heart, John’s gaze fixed on Sherlock's full lips, divided between the desire to respond with a sarcastic comment and the want to throwing his arms round his neck.

John swallowed, raising his eyes to meet the icy-blue ones of the detective.

"Are you really sure that's what I want?" he asked in a whisper.

With the tail of his eye he noticed the movement of black curls in an affirmative gesture.

-Yes. Because that’s what I want too-

Later, John would blame the closeness, the unexpected statement, the voluntary separation to which he had subjected both of them in the last week, but at that moment the only thought that crossed his mind was: why not?

Why not take advantage of what was so generously granted to Irene Adler?

In an almost incorporeal gesture, John raised a hand and moved it behind Sherlock's neck, bringing the man's face closer to his own, bringing their lips together in a violent kiss.

Sherlock's hands, so far against the door, moved instantly and moved until one was placed in the doctor's thick blonde hair and the other against his side, getting the two bodies closer.

The kiss, a union of lips, teeth, and tongues left them satisfied, but hungry, and when their lips parted, two wheezing breaths broke the sudden silence of the room.

John's lips left kisses down Sherlock’s cheeks, on his high and sharp cheekbones, only partially aware of Sherlock's hands under his sweater and his shirt stroking the slightly stretched skin of his abdomen, his face hidden in the hollow between the shoulder and neck, where a curious tongue and sharp teeth were leaving their mark.

"I'm so angry with you right now" John said in a whisper before caressing Sherlock’s earlobe with the tip of his tongue.

"I know- answered Sherlock promptly, his back shaken by a shiver of pleasure.

John still in Sherlock’s arms moved into the living room until he got to the couch where he let himself fall followed the next moment by the detective, who hurried to cover his body with all his statuesque physique, but John would never allow him to take the lead in such a situation, so he quickly got up to sit down, Sherlock seated on him with his legs around John’s hips, both of them groaning with pleasure when their erections inadvertently bumped against each other.

Hands against the shoulder pad of the sofa, Sherlock kissed him again, with greater tenderness than before, moving slightly on his legs, causing a pleasant friction that led John to clench his fists in the expensive and delicate fabric of the detective's shirt, before he moved his hands to the front and start unbuttoning it.

With each button a new section of pale and perfect skin came to view, increasing John’s desire to imprint his own mark, to leave scratches on that skin so delicate yet so resistant.

**Irene surely had used ** **her** ** best tools in front of such a perfect canvas...**

Caught by surprise from that thought, John shook his head, interrupting the kiss and hiding his face in Sherlock's unbuttoned shirt, kissing the Adam's Apple and the hollow of his throat, trying to remove images of a similar situation from his mind, of a place far away in time, maybe in a back alley, where an equally disheveled Sherlock let himself enjoy Irene’s attentions.

Two hands clasped the sides of his face and convinced him to raise his head again and meet Sherlock's gaze.

"Look at me" the man said before kissing John again.

John focused on that kiss, his eyes fixed momentarily in the icy-blue ones, stroking Sherlock’s upper lip with the tip of his tongue, biting the bottom one gently, until his tongue got involved in a dance with his twin and, again overwhelmed with passion, John closed his eyes, his arms clasped around the detective's hips, his skinny chest pressed against his own still covered by the sweater.

**Had he kissed Irene, too?**

Just as that thought formed in John’s mind, Sherlock moved his lips, beginning to cover his face with small kisses, then moving down, on his chin, neck, his chest despite still being covered by clothes, while hands with long and nimble fingers took care of his belt, quickly unlacing it, then switching to the button of the jeans and the zipper.

It was only then that John realized a very important detail: his erection, that was evident when they had begun that interlude, was gone.

This explained why Sherlock was on his knees on the carpet in front of the couch, his shirt unbuttoned, his hair tangled, his lips puffy for their kisses, ready to rekindle his interest...

**What other reason would he have had otherwise?**

Once again, his mind kindly provided him with the reverse situation, with Sherlock in his place and Irene on the carpet in front of the sofa...

Surely Irene had been prodigal of attention, and Sherlock as a good pupil had undoubtedly learned all her tricks.

Aware of his own failure, John let his head fall against the back of the sofa, his eyes closed so as not to see the disappointed expression in Sherlock's eyes and licked his lips before speaking.

-Sherlock... I think it's better if we stop-John said without looking at the detective.

For a few moments there was no answer, not even the smallest noise helped him understand the man's reaction to his words.

-John...-

In that simple word was contained all the fear that Sherlock always hide behind his mask: fear of not being adequate, of loneliness, but above all of being rejected after opening his heart for the first time in twenty years.

John sighed and stood up, briefly turning his back on the detective until his trousers were back in place.

-I can't stop thinking about you and Irene.

I always imagined this moment while you were away and, believe me, there is nothing I would like more than to make love with you, but with every attention you have I wonder if she taught you, I continue to make comparisons...-

Sherlock, still sitting on the floor, regained some of his confidence in those words, knowing that he could not do much to help John in his fight against the ghosts of the past.

"It didn't mean anything, how many times do I have to tell you?" he said.

John nodded slowly.

"I know, but it doesn't help me" he said.

After a few moments of silence in which neither of them could find a solution to get out of that impasse, John nodded and walked to the door.

"I always said your name" Sherlock exclaimed, making him stop next to the hanger.

John turned slightly and stared at the detective with a questioning look.

"Every time I was with Irene, every time that I orgasmed, I said your name...-explained.

-Sherlock...- said John embarrassed.

-It's always been you John; before the Fall and then when I was with Irene: she meant nothing to me because every time I had an orgasm I had you in mind.

You are the only person I have ever loved- he confessed brutally sincere.

John swallowed, not knowing what to do or say for the umpteenth time since this absurd situation began.

-I'm going to do whatever it takes, if it's going to get you back to me.

I've stolen three years of your life; all I can offer you in return is time-

John found himself unable to take a step in any direction: initially he wanted to leave and forget that evening and all that had happened, but once again he found himself encased in the need to run to Sherlock, curling up against him and wait for everything to settle as if by magic and the desire to close that chapter of his life behind once and for all.

The detective had left the choice to him, it was clear from his words that he would wait years if John would ask him.

But John Watson had never been a cruel man.

It was then, in that limbo between staying or running away that John made his own decision.

He took a deep breath and passed his hand through his disheveled hair, never turning his gaze away from his partner’s eyes.

"My feelings for you haven't changed, but I can't trust you right now-John began, the voice hoarse because of the repressed emotions he felt pressing against the walls of his throat.

Sherlock nodded in silence.

-We have a lot to work on. We have to learn to work together again, understand what our limits are as a couple and above all I will have to get used to Hamish.

Of course, we can't do all this living apart...

So tomorrow, after work, I'll come back home- John said, making your decision official.

_There's no turning back._

Sherlock's huge eyes stared at his face making him smile slightly.

-I'm going to sleep in my room and we're going to take one day at the time, like we've always done... Maybe if we're lucky, things will return to normal- he said, more serene now that he's found a plan for his future.

Sherlock rose to his feet and with a few steps stood before him.

Silently the detective lowered his face until he laid his soft lips on the doctor's forehead.

"Normality is boring John... " he said in a whisper.

John met his eyes and returned the smile that was slowly bending the black-haired man’s lips.

Maybe theirs wasn't a love story with the classic "and _they lived happily _ever after ", but John was certain that a bit of "boring normality" would be good for them too.

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**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Songs:  
"An innocent man" by Billy Joel  
"I can't fight this feeling" by REO Speedwagon  
"I put a spell on you" by Nina Simone  
" I could write a book" by Harry Connick Jr.


	10. Wonderwall part I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "What's a Wonderwall?
> 
> A wonderwall is somebody you can always lean on, no matter what you need, they are always there for you"

Life at 221B Baker Street returned to normal.

Or so it might have seemed to an outsider.

Upon John's return home, Sherlock became convinced that things would soon return to their daily routine of experiments, clinic shifts interspersed with boring crimes and take-away food.

But his analytical mind had not considered an important variable: Hamish.

In the short period of distance an important factor had intervened to disturb the quiet of their daily routine and, although at first the detective was firmly convinced that it would take a few days to create a relationship between John and Hamish, now he had to deal with reality: the doctor seemed willing to bond with the child, but completely reluctant to strengthen the old relationship that until a few days ago had tied him to Sherlock.

John was a typical English man, he would never be openly rude but it was clear that he was trying in every way to avoid him: he had doubled his shifts in the clinic, getting up early and just taking the time of a shower and a quick breakfast before going to work, where he spent eight to ten hours, then came home tired to his bones having just time to relax on the sofa in front of the television eating at the same time something bought on the way back from work, falling asleep on the sofa until the pain in his shoulder became too strong forcing him to move upstairs into his bedroom.

Conversation between the two housemates was minimal, mostly focused on Hamish, and Sherlock had not escaped John's total disinterest in his meals, or the hours of sleep slept by the detective.

John had returned to Baker Street, but at a Baker Street two months earlier when silence ruled the apartment and both he and Sherlock avoided speaking to avoid the outbreak of yet another argument.

For his part, Sherlock had focused his attention on Hamish, trying to improve his skills as a parent, taking long walks around London alternately explaining where they were, which ones were the best restaurants in that area, how many murders had been committed in that neighborhood, how many had been solved thanks to his intervention and then starting a detailed description of the one he considered his "masterpiece".

Several times he had drawn upon himself the incredulous, sometimes horrified, gaze of passers-by who had heard him talk about murders with a newborn, but as always he had answered that look carelessly: Hamish was his son, he understood perfectly why he was telling those stories and given the lack of complaints, Sherlock could say quietly that Hamish loved those stories almost as much as he did.

During the hours when he found himself alone with his thoughts, without Hamish to take care of or without John to observe, Sherlock thought carefully about his current situation with John.

He absolutely had to do something.

He had foolishly convinced himself that it was enough to get the doctor back to Baker Street to magically solve their problems, but it was obvious that he had to take the first step if he wanted to change the situation: after what had happened, John could no longer trust him, so it would be up to Sherlock to prove to him that despite the lies and silences, he was still worthy of his friendship, his trust and above all his love.

But what was the right way to prove it to him?

Words had never been his forte and he was convinced that in a situation like theirs they would not help his case... He needed something to catch John off guard, something that would make him gasp.

That evening, wrapped in his blue silk robe, crouched on his own armchair, his knees folded at chest height, the silence of the night broken only by the occasional siren, deep in his Mind Palace he took out the many information he had about his doctor, scrolling carefully through every single file to find what he needed.

What would leave John pleasantly impressed?

If the situation had been different, Sherlock would have had no difficulty in pointing to sex as the most suitable choice: he could be completely naked on John's bed waiting for John return, maybe make some sassy comments and the rest would have been easy... But probably if he did so now, given their situation, John would have closed the door of the room to "give him some privacy" despite his excitement would have been obvious.

Such a choice would only cause more damage now, he thought quickly discarding that idea.

John was an adrenaline junkie... He could have staged a fake kidnapping, perhaps leaving some clues simple enough even for Lestrade to find, that would lead them to his bunker... But if John would have found out it was all a set-up, he would have been even more enraged, making their current situation worse.

Come on! It shouldn't have been that hard!

Frustrated he sunk his fingers through his hair, upsetting the curls and giving them a rebellious look, before standing up and heading to the bathroom in search of the nicotine patches… a problem like that required at least two patches.

John had been his companion for five years, they had lived together for eighteen months, how could he not find anything to help him make their situation better?

Dropping back into the chair, he wondered again what made John Watson special.

Hands clasped next to his mouth, Sherlock thought carefully, feeling the nicotine circulating and tidying up his confused thoughts.

John Watson was an anomaly.

On a first look, he was a boring and ordinary person, a man grow older ahead of time with his cardigans, his ugly sweaters and his loafers.

He was a reliable person, able to smile even after yet another case of flu or to dispense a kind word to the hypochondriac lady (_slightly infatuated with him_) who returned to the clinic for the third time in a week.

John was definitely a patient man, otherwise he would never have been able to survive for eighteen months in the same apartment with Sherlock Holmes and his experiments and the severed body parts in the fridge.

John was a good friend.

John was a habitual person who started his day with a cup of tea and toast and who preferred to spend Saturday nights at home in front of the television rather than go to the pub with friends.

John Watson was all that... But it was also the complete opposite.

His sweaters were a perfect disguise, an urban camouflage to confuse the idiots who met him on the street and did not recognize his strength, his military background under the layers of wool and vicuna.

John Watson was a man who accepted no imposition from anyone, not even the British Government himself, capable of offering himself as a human shield against the greatest criminal mastermind he had ever encountered or willing to blow himself up rather than continuing to be part of the game that would end up killing other innocent victims.

Despite his infinite patience there was always a moment when John got to the point of no return, ready to unleash his anger against objects and people who were within his range, becoming extremely (_sometimes fatally_) dangerous.

John was a very good friend... But he could turn into the worst enemy if what he loved most was threatened or endangered.

His precise and habitual methods had also sent Sherlock into confusion, hiding that hidden facade that took him to gay clubs every Monday night, which had made him "the most desired gay in England", hiding from the sight of many his drug-addicted past.

John Watson was full of contractions and Sherlock was certain that he had only scratched the surface during their cohabitation.

But there was more... Something he hadn't paid attention to until now.

John Watson was a romantic.

Satisfied, Sherlock rose from his armchair and made his way to the lectern, ready to put his plan into action.

________________________________

Despite years in the service for Queen and Country, with schedules punctuated by marches and gatherings before and stakeouts and hours spent in operating theatres then, John had never been a morning person.

His years in the Army had left him the ability to fall asleep everywhere and wake up to the slightest noise, but his years with Sherlock had shown him the difference between a breaking in and another of the absurd experiment of the detective, so that he could go back to sleep, sure of his safety as well of the safety of the other residents of 221 Baker Street.

As every morning, when he woke up, John basked for a few moments in bed, enjoying the warmth of his blankets, rubbing his still half-asleep eyes before turning the blankets away from his body and standing up, his feet almost touching the beige linoleum.

Before standing up, he moved his neck to the right and then to the left, feeling a small sprain, then focusing on his shoulder sore due to the humidity and immobility of a whole night, moving it slowly to reactivate circulation in the damaged tissues, letting out a hiss of pain.

With one last yawn, John stood up, recovering his dressing gown at the foot of the bed and, as usual in the last few days, before opening the door of his own bedroom, his right hand clasped around the doorknob, took a long breath, ready to face a new day.

The next moment he opened the door and stood out in the hallway, a hand in his disheveled hair as his legs carried him downstairs.

His ears recorded Sherlock's baritone voice even before his eyes could see his figure in the kitchen; Sherlock, as usual in his pajamas and dressing gown, was sitting next to the table busy having breakfast with little Hamish.

His mind, still partially asleep, wondered if that night the detective had allowed himself a few hours of sleep as opposed to the previous days, quickly driving away that thought.

Since he came back to Baker Street, John had promised himself not to get too caught up in the vortex that had become Sherlock's new life: the detective had recently become a father, he needed to find new balances, to create a relationship with Hamish and the last thing he needed was John's meddling.

In the last few days the doctor had noticed the looks Sherlock had sent him when he thought he was distracted, he had felt the warmth that that enormous intelligence unleashed when it was on him, but he had controlled himself and tried to be unperturbed.

Several times he had to bite his tongue to block those questions that now came automatically on his lips, reminding himself that if Sherlock had taken charge of looking after Hamish then he would be able to take care of himself without any help.

As every morning, John made his way to the kitchen to put the kettle on, surprised to find it already hot and ready; turning his head slightly, he glanced at the detective who deliberately avoided meeting his gaze.

After taking his mug from the cabinet and putting in a bag of English Breakfast tea, John poured in the boiling water and left the drink infused, focusing on preparing the second part of his breakfast.

-I made a decision - Sherlock's firm voice interrupted him.

John, the bag of white sliced bread in his hands, stood still for a few moments, trying to put his thoughts in order.

He knew that sooner or later that moment would come: it was Sherlock who convinced him to come home, but it was evident that even the detective could not bear the silence and embarrassment between them.

John had convinced himself that he had a few more days before the man told him that he had made a misjudgment, that their situation was irreparable, and that John would be better off looking for another flat.

Apparently, he was wrong.

"Oh, yeah?" he asked, trying to hide the storm that was stirring within him behind a calm voice.

He heard the chair creak and realized that Sherlock had turned to him, feeling immediately his piercing look upon himself, Hamish's voice the only sound to interrupt the dense silence between them.

-Mh... I thought we should go out on a date tonight-answered Sherlock in seemingly careless voice.

John needed a few moments to fully understand the meaning of those words.

He had expected Sherlock to ask him to leave at any moment, while the detective had other thoughts in his head.

A date? Was that what Sherlock was proposing to him?

Without realizing it, he found himself with his back against the kitchen counter, his arms crossed at chest height and his gaze fixed on Sherlock's, still clearly incredulous with what was going on.

"I’m sorry what?" he asked, cursing himself the next moment for the banality of his question.

-A date- confirmed Sherlock before getting up and having Hamish sit in the playpen full of toys that they had arranged in the living room in perfect view with the detective's unorganized desk.

-I know that my knowledge of romantic matters is rather poor if not completely non-existent, but I am aware that it is a fundamental point of courtship as it allows two people to get to know each other better... -

-I know what a date is" John retorted.

-That's great! We can go out to dinner, or to the movies and spend time together just you and me.

What do you think? - Sherlock asked, mimicking John’s stance, leaning against the table.

Did Sherlock Holmes just invite him to the movies?

That was the proof that he was still in bed fast asleep....

John stared for a few seconds at the black-haired man, his brain still confused over that brief conversation and unable to find a logical meaning to the situation, then he sighed and passed a hand through his messy hair.

"I don't understand why you're inviting me out on a date" he replied sincere certain that Sherlock would help him shed a light on that mystery.

A frustrated sigh slip out from the detective's disclosed lips before he began his "obvious" explanation.

-In the eighteen months we have lived together, the two of us have eaten together many times with dinners and take-aways, not to mention the time spent together during our stakeouts, but each time you made it clear that it was not a date for all those who were within earshot-

John had to admit that there was nothing truer, so he merely nodded, sure that even that slight hint would be enough to keep the detective going.

Sherlock took the few steps that separated them and stood before John, his hands on both arms, his gaze fixed in his.

"We decided to spend the rest of our lives together, as a family, and yet until a week ago we weren't even a couple”

_And we don't even know if we still are._

"You are right" said the detective, clearly reading that thought on the doctor's face. "We already know that we want to spend the rest of our life together, so let me woo you, let me convince you that there is nothing else in the world that I desire more than you, and that will never come the day when I will ask you to leave Baker Street" Sherlock said in a calm, deep voice.

Obviously, he had noticed his fears... Nothing escapes the eye of the great Sherlock Holmes.

John looked down on the grey t-shirt that covered Sherlock's chest, reflecting on the man's words: after all, it wasn't such an absurd idea, he would have found it romantic if it was someone else who proposed it. Moreover, what mattered most was what Sherlock had said between the lines of his speech, perhaps without even realizing it.

He had shown him that he really cared about them, that he was willing to put himself in completely stranger situations in order to make him happy, that he had noticed his discomfort and his fears and that he wanted to reassure him in every way.

Raising his eyes to the detective's face, John knew that this idea was not really as absurd as it first seemed: they had to start somewhere to rebuild their relationship.

"When?" he asked.

-Tonight-

"What are we going to do with Hamish?" the doctor asked, casting a glance at the child busy playing with his toys.

-We will leave him with Mrs. Hudson; since you came back, she became more affectionate towards him- Sherlock commented.

John nodded slowly, his gaze fixed on the child, while an idea formed slowly in his head.

-Ok Sherlock, but on one condition... As you said, we are about to become a family, but I realized that in the last few days I have deliberately stepped aside so as not to interfere in your father-son relationship...-he confessed.

-John...-

-But if I keep going like this, I'm never going to be able to build a relationship with him, so tomorrow I want to spend a whole day with you and Hamish.

We can go to the zoo, or to the London Aquarium...- John proposed with a little smile.

Sherlock reflected quickly before smiling as well.

-The zoo is a good idea: last year they had a great section dedicated to insects and reptiles...-Sherlock said.

John lowered his head slightly, hiding a smile.

"I'm sure Hamish will love them" he said, nodding.

-Then we have a deal-

The next moment John put himself together, recalling his half-made breakfast, the day ahead of him and he turned his head slightly towards the kitchen counter to check his now lukewarm teacup.

"I have to get ready for work" said John, turning to Sherlock.

"Do you want a cup of tea?"he asked before he could stop himself.

"Black, two sugar" replied the other man, sitting in front of his microscope.

John smiled, turning the kettle back on.

Maybe it wouldn't have been as difficult as he thought to rebuild that relationship...

_______________________

The moment the elevator doors opened on the Investigative Section of New Scotland Yard; Sherlock was greeted by an all-too-familiar voice.

-You can't bring a child to Scotland Yard-

The news that Sherlock Holmes, the sociopath par excellence, had become a father had spread among the investigative team with the speed of a lightning, followed by the news of John leaving Baker Street, and all of the members, starting with Sally and Anderson ending up with the last agent, were looking forward to take a look at the "poor unfortunate" baby.

With his innate grace, not at all dented by the baby-carrier placed on his chest that hold Hamish, Sherlock turned to Sally and stared at her with a bored look.

-Why is that? Have you finally lost control and hid Anderson's body in this building?

It would be a smart move, a dead body in plain sight, but I don't think you have the intelligence necessary for such a cunning murder-Sherlock commented.

Sally shrugged off that comment, trying to hide her wounded pride for the umpteenth time and sticking on her face the usual harsh expression that has always been her mask against Sherlock's attacks.

"Of course not!" she retorted.

"Then my son is safe here" he said, and then headed to Lestrade's office.

The gaze of all the officers seated at his desks followed him until he arrived at the closed office door, as so many times before, but this time it was evident that the object of their attention was Hamish, prompting in him an unexpected irritation that led him to put a hand on Hamish’s back in a protective gesture.

Without knocking Sherlock opened the office door and entered.

Lestrade looked up from the computer monitor and frowned.

"What are you and Hamish doing here?" he asked, straightening his back, his gaze fixed on the detective.

"Is it really so strange that I'm in the Investigative Section of Scotland Yard?" Sherlock asked, sitting into a chair in front of the desk.

Greg shook his head.

-This has now become your office as well as mine, but what's Hamish doing with you? It's not the first place you expect to find a child, especially not so young-

The detective snorted annoyed.

-Well, you’re going to have to get used to it. Hamish is my son, I work here, and he must learn about my work- Sherlock answered in the usual tone he used to explain his "obvious" reasoning.

Greg shook his head slightly, hinting at a small smile.

-I don’t know why I expected anything different.... What can I do for you?

Are you here for unsolved cases or are you ready to go back into action with a new case? -Greg asked him resting his elbows on the desk top.

The detective remained silent for a few moments, unconsciously stroking Hamish's back, tidying his thoughts and searching for the appropriate words to deal with that conversation that he felt was unpleasant but necessary.

-No, I'm not. As much as I don’t like it, I need your advice on a personal matter - he started looking at the inspector.

Clearly surprised, Greg set back on his chair to be more comfortable and nodded slightly.

-I'll see what I can do to help you- Greg merely answered, aware that further solicitation would lead Sherlock to clam up.

"As you know, John is back at Baker Street," Sherlock said, receiving a nod to confirm his words- But our situation is no longer what it was before Hamish came to live with us...-continued.

"He’s giving you the cold shoulder, isn’t it?" asked Greg.

-To be precise, he's ignoring me- answered Sherlock.

Greg looked down on his hands for a few moments before returning to meet the detective's icy-blue gaze.

"I told you he'd need some time" Greg said.

Sherlock had expected that answer because the next moment he shook his head, leaning slightly forward, careful not to crush Hamish and placed an elbow on one knee.

-I think you're wrong.

Recent developments have shown that the more time John has to think about what happened, the more time he will analyzed the situation, making comparisons, and the greater his doubts and recriminations will be-answered the detective.

For a moment in his mind returned the image of a tormented John struggling with his ghosts, unable to let go despite wanting Sherlock with everything in himself... He would give and do anything to never see such an anguished John again.

"So, what's your plan?" asked Greg, ripping him from his thoughts.

-John needs to remember how good we were together, that there's no one who can understand him as the me and vice versa... That's why I invited him to dinner this evening- Sherlock added almost as an afterthought.

Greg opened his eyes wide, clearly surprised.

-You invited him to dinner. Do you mean a real date and not a simple dinner? – he asked him to be sure he understood well.

-That’s what I said, isn't it? We've known each other for a couple of years and we've never been on a real date-Sherlock said.

_Maybe because you were too busy hiding your feelings_, Greg thought still in disbelief.

"Do the stakeouts and take-aways to celebrate the end of a case does not count?" he asked with a wry smile.

A suffering expression appeared on Sherlock's face.

-Can you try to be serious? If I wanted sarcastic jokes I would have gone to Mycroft- Sherlock observed clearly annoyed.

-Ok, I'm sorry. So, you asked John out on a date.

How can I help you? - he asked.

Sherlock let himself go against the back of his chair, his right hand still busy stroking Hamish's back.

-As you can imagine I've never had a date before, and I don't think I'm wrong when I say you've had dates with women and men- the detective said.

Greg nodded, beginning to understand the meaning of that conversation.

-Oh... Now I understand, you need advices on how to make this thing work-he couldn't help but say.

Sherlock sighed.

-As I said, I don’t like to admit it, but I need the opinion of an expert- he confirmed without minimizing the annoyance that this situation brought with it.

Greg nodded before leaning forward on the desk, both arms on the desktop cluttered with paperwork.

"Okay, do you have any ideas already?" he asked.

-I read on the internet last night searching for any good ideas but it turned out to be useless: many sites say that to make a "perfect" date you have to surprise your partner, take it to some special or fun place, like a fair or on a roller coaster, even in a luxury hotel...-

-If I were you I wouldn't throw away the idea of the luxury hotel too quickly; I agree it's too much for a first date, but if things go well, you can always use it for an anniversary, to spend some time together and have sex without having to worry about not making noise-comment Greg, noting right away the thoughtful expression of the detective’s face, a sign that he was putting that information into his Mind Palace.

-You and John have a place that you consider special? - Greg then asked.

Sherlock shrugged.

-Angelo's. We had dinner there the first night we met- Sherlock answered.

\- Cute, but that's not enough, and then if I'm not mistaken, you often go there.

Also, it's a date so you have to choose a restaurant where no one owes you a favor and then you'll have to pay the bill- Greg added.

-Mh...-Sherlock just answered, clearly busy scrolling through the list of restaurants that owed him favors around London.

"Some other place?"- Greg inveted him.

-Baker Street... Barts- listed Sherlock.

-Anything else? -

-We've been together forty-eight hours, what do you expect? - Sherlock asked him.

"You've lived together for two years" Greg retorted.

"Well, we don't have any special places, are you happy now?" replied Sherlock ready to clam up and end their conversation.

Greg took a deep breath and let the silence fall for a few moments before taking his look back at his friend and talking again.

-John is a simple man, he doesn't need expensive and elegant restaurants...-started.

-So, I'm supposed to take him to a fast food restaurant? "Is that what you're suggesting?" Sherlock replied clearly upset.

The inspector shook his head.

-You're getting ridiculous now.

Do you want to woo him? That's a good idea! Take him to a good restaurant, not too expensive, have a good conversation, try to eat part of your dinner, and above all avoid the huge elephant that is among you right now, otherwise you will end up ruining everything.

And try to have fun-Greg added at the end.

Sherlock reflected a few minutes on his words before sighing and nodding; meeting his gaze Greg nodded as well, glad that his advice had not been labeled as trivial or useless.

-All right.

Then what happens? -Sherlock asked him, taking him by surprise.

Greg arched a curious eyebrow.

-You're so obtuse sometimes!

What should I do after dinner? Do I have to invite him somewhere else or do I have to call a cab and go straight home? -he explained.

-Oh... Well, it depends on many factors: how the dinner goes, whether John has to work the next day...-replied Greg promptly.

-We decided to take Hamish to the zoo- Sherlock interrupted.

A smile appeared on Greg's lips.

-That's a good idea. In that case, however, I would recommend closing the evening early: from what I have heard taking care of a child can be demanding.

And it might be the cue to invite John out a second time...-suggested Greg.

Sherlock nodded slowly, reflecting on his words before standing up, again controlled by the nervous energy that characterized him and which with a few steps led him to the office door.

-Ok Lestrade... For once you proved to be competent- Sherlock commented opening the door and exiting into the hallway.

"You’re welcome!" Greg said back, a satisfied smile on his face.

It wasn't every day that you get a "thank you" from Sherlock Holmes...

All you had to do was read between the lines.

_____________________________________

_"I need to talk to someone._

_Can we have lunch together? -_ _ JW"_

_"I'll be at the clinic by 1 p.m." –J_

After accepting Sherlock's dinner date, John relapsed into his morning routine: breakfast, shower, beard, and then quickly dressing up to get to work.

He had found father and son busy playing with colorful building blocks and wished them a good day and advised them not to do too much damage, then left the house walking the short distance between the apartment and the clinic.

It was during that short walk that he had begun to think about what had happened not even an hour ago: Sherlock had asked him out on a date.

It was something so rare and important that even the passage of a comet over Baker Street would pale in comparison.

John knew from experience that the detective didn't usually let go of cheesy or romantic gestures, so that simple proposal was proof that Sherlock was willing to do anything to save their relationship and if he had to be completely honest with himself, John was as excited at the idea of that date.

But a small part of himself was slightly worried...

A tiny part of his brain kept pointing out to him that if they were now in that situation, if they were forced to fight to save that relationship that had been born under the best auspices and that had made John believe in a peaceful future, it was because of Sherlock's mistakes, because of his silence, and because of what had happened with Irene.

Without all those problems their newborn relationship would have been idyllic: at the beginning of a relationship two people can’t seem to take their hands off each other longer than the time it takes to eat or take a shower (when it is not done together) or sleep.

It's the period that everyone regrets after a couple of months when the problems and quarrels increase, and you don’t seem to find time for sex!

Why did they totally skip that stage?

John knew the answer to that question perfectly, but that didn't help him feel better, at all!

Because of those negative thoughts, the feeling of joy and excitement he had felt even an hour earlier had slowly faded, leaving him at the end with the conviction that perhaps it had not been a good idea to accept that invitation, not in their current situation, and that the best thing to do once he arrived at the clinic was to inform Sherlock that he had changed his mind and that it was better to arrange dinner for another day.

But, entering the clinic and greeting Stephanie with a nod and a smile, John called himself a coward: it was Sherlock Holmes who had asked him out on a date not one of the guys he met at "Pride"!

If he pulled back now, after the first attempt, Sherlock would have closed up like a hedgehog and ceased all attempts and brought their relationship back on a purely working level and John would have regretted that missed opportunity for the rest of his life.

It was then that, sitting behind his desk, he had taken his phone in his hands and, instead of sending a message to Sherlock, sent one to Jack, asking for help, receiving a positive response a few minutes later.

Reassured by the conversation that, he was certain, would help him clear his ideas, John focused on his work proving as affable and charming as always to his patients and making himself a cup of tea mid-morning while he made small talks with Sarah.

He told the woman of the invitation he had from that evening and the happy expression that appeared on Sarah’s face, John would have expected to see her jump from joy in his place.

"We have to decide what you will wear!" she said, then with a firm expression, began to discard the choices that she considered unsuitable or definitely old-fashioned, allowing him to put only a few suggestions or complaints.

When John finally managed to return to his office, he was decidedly more confused and slightly worried that, considering Sarah's opinion on his clothes, he would have more luck impressing Sherlock if he showed up naked.

Moving those thoughts aside from his mind, he had focused on his work again until, after looking up to welcome yet another patient, he had met Jack’s familiar face.

"You don't know how nice it is to see your ugly face" said John, standing up and hugging his friend.

Jack hugged his friend as well and locked the office door behind him, then showed the lunch bag he was clutching in his right hand.

John returned to his desk and, when he raised his office phone, he informed Stephanie not to send in any more patients for at least forty minutes, before returning to sit behind the desk.

"So, where have you been these last few days?" John asked, looking back at his friend.

"Shouldn't I ask you the same question?"asked Jack, sitting in front of the desk.

John smiled.

-I only went an hour from London. What exotic and mysterious city caught your eye? -

Jack shrugged.

-Copenhagen.

The Minister of the Internal Affairs had a series of meetings with his Danish counterpart and I was assigned as his bodyguard- Jack confessed.

-Damn... Did you bring me a souvenir? - asked John with a wry smile on his lips.

-I thought I'd bring you the Little Mermaid, but then I realized it wouldn’t fit in my suitcase... Do you settle for a box of sardines? -replied the other man ironically, before pulling the sandwiches out of the bag.

John chuckled and leaned forward to grab his own lunch and teacup.

-But you have been busy too. When I left you and Sherlock just got together, ready for a sex marathon and instead I come back to find you on the verge of a nervous breakdown and with a baby.

I don't know if I should congratulate you or give you my condolences-said Jack, staring at the friend.

John looked down on his hands clenched around the still wrapped sandwich.

-It was all really sudden. The day before I met Mrs. Holmes and we talked about a future together, about getting a dog... Believe me, I was ready to start that sex marathon... And the next moment everything collapsed- John tried to explain.

-What's the problem? When I read the text, I thought you had broken up it once and for all-said Jack, taking a bite out of his sandwich.

"How can we break up if I don't even know if we're still together?" John asked, looking up at his friend.

-Of course, you are! Otherwise how would you explain all this pain and sorrow? -asked the other man.

John sighed and decided to open his own sandwich, despite not having much appetite, but he was aware that he had to eat something; that night his stomach would stop him from eating even a pin and the last thing he wanted was to ruin that date because of him fainting.

-Sherlock asked me out on a date tonight. A real date- John confessed giving a bite to his sandwich.

A smile appeared on Jack's face.

"Oh, that’s so romantic!" he said.

"Fuck off!" retorted John.

The other man burst out laughing, clearly amused by the whole situation and for a couple of minutes the two men remained silent, focused on their own lunch.

-I don’t really understand how you complicated things like this. And in such a short time! -added Jack before taking a sip from his own cup.

-Because he's an idiot and I'm the masochist in love with an idiot-replied John without needing to think.

Jack shrugged.

-You're won’t be the first.

Okay, tell me about this date-said Jack settling more comfortable in the chair and taking his own cup in his hands.

John left his sandwich half eaten on the desk and was silent for few moments, gathering his thoughts, going back to everything that had happened between him and Sherlock in the last weeks, searching for the right words and meeting his friend gaze only when he felt really ready to face that conversation.

-Okay… As you know I only went back to Baker Street a few days ago- he started, getting in response a nod- What you don't know is that before I came back, we had one of our typical fights where we yell at each other.

But this time, before I could leave, Sherlock... He said the right thing and... -stopped John, unable to find the right words to explain what happened.

Jack leaned slightly forward in his own chair and stared at him with excitement on his face.

-Don't tell me you finally did it!! -

John shook his head sadly.

-I... I didn't make it.

I wanted him so bad, but I kept thinking about him and that woman... – John confessed.

"You really have to get over it" said Jack.

-I'm trying, okay?

I keep thinking about how sad and miserable he was after her disappearance, how attracted he was to her...

Every time Sherlock touches me, I wonder why is he with me when he could be with her" he said, avoiding his friend's gaze.

"Isn't the fact that he's clearly in love with you enough?"asked Jack softly.

John sighed, letting go of his head against the back of his armchair.

-It should…-

Jack got up and turned around the desk to get closer to John, then bent down on his knees to lay his head on the back of the armchair next to John's.

"Are you still in love with him?" he asked, taking one of John’s hand in his.

"Was there a day since I met him that I didn't love that lovely bastard?"replied John, moving his head slightly to meet the other man's gaze.

-Then you should start from there: we all make mistakes Johnny, but nevertheless we have to keep trying-

John sighed, passing his hand over his face.

"What about tonight?" he asked again.

Jack shrugged his shoulders, getting up again and leaning against his desk to meet his friend's gaze.

-Don't be nervous, see how this date goes, do your best to make it unforgettable and most importantly have fun.

After all, it's a date with your Sherlock... Perhaps the first of his life, so try to make it special-

John nodded slowly, aware of the importance of that night.

-Oh, don't forget rule No.1-Jack added suddenly.

John raised an eyebrow curious.

-No sex on the first date, but if you were to give in to temptation, don't be stingy with foreplay and lube.

________________________________

At seven o'clock, Sherlock stood waiting at the foot of the small staircase leading from the living room to John's bedroom.

At any moment John would come down those stairs and their date would officially begin and, for the first time in many years, Sherlock Holmes was literally terrified.

It had been his idea that date and throughout the day he had planned everything for the evening to be sure everything will be perfect, but there was always a slight chance that something could go wrong compromising further their relationship.

Shortly before, he had left Hamish with Mrs. Hudson, without making too many recommendations and receiving in return the usual reassurances combined with the wish to enjoy the evening.

But would he really be able to put aside his fears and do his part so he and John will have fun together?

Until now, it had never been a problem, and he had never had to strive so hard... But never before had their relationship been so much in trouble.

The sound of heavy footsteps on the stairs had driven him away from his thoughts, leading him to raise his eyes just as John's figure appeared in the living room.

The doctor was dressed in a pair of black jeans that highlighted his solid legs and narrow waist and a black-striped shirt that accentuated his firm chest and arm muscles covered by a black waistcoat with a white handkerchief; it was a typical and at the same time unusual attire for the man (_since when John owned a waistcoat?_), and unable to look away, Sherlock felt breathless.

John's gaze was on him, watching him carefully, noting his black trousers, purple shirt (chosen for the occasion as it had always been one of John ‘s favorite) and a black jacket, before meeting his gaze and giving him a small smile.

"Not bad" he said.

Sherlock rose from his torpor and cleared his throat.

"No bad you too" he said, scolding himself the next moment for the misgrammar of his words.

-Thank you! I always try to make a good impression on a first date-commented John.

Sherlock nodded, while his brain wondered whether John's words had been ironic or mischievous.

John smiled again and then moved around the room, picking up his wallet (as if Sherlock would let him pay!) and his phone, before turning to him.

"Ready to go?" he asked.

Sherlock moved quickly into the living room, approaching the door, grabbing his own coat and John's.

"Of course, just a quick stop to say goodbye to Mrs. Hudson and Hamish and then we can go" he said, stepping aside to let John out of the apartment, seizing the surprised expression on John's face.

The detective quickly wondered what might have caused that reaction, coming to the correct conclusion: he had made the wrong move by letting John precede him.

From the very first moment, he had always been the first to put his foot out the door, to walk away, in whatever situation they were, certain that John would follow him; let him go on had at the same time surprised and destabilized the doctor.

Did John think he wanted to belittle his masculinity?

This certainly won’t do! The only solution was to re-enter his role and label that mistake as an oversight.

After stopping briefly at Mrs. Hudson, the two men soon found themselves inside a cab, heading for their destination.

"Where are we going?"asked John slightly curious, after a brief silence.

"It’s a surprise" Sherlock said without looking away from his own window, where he saw John nodding clearly confused.

Their journey lasted about twenty minutes due to London traffic and on the way, Sherlock enjoyed watching the changes on John's face as they moved away from Westminster and the areas they usually frequented to get to Battersea.

The taxi stopped a short distance from Battersea Bridge, perfectly lit in the night and John looked around looking not very discreetly for the place of their date.

"I know this area" said the doctor once he got out of the cab, "I once went with Harry to Vivienne Westwood's shop" he added, looking around for the aforementioned store.

Sherlock paid the cab driver and waited for John to join him again before heading down a side street until he stopped in front of a restaurant.

The doctor observed the restaurant: a white facade, on which stood a blue curtain that would shelter customers from the rain or the sun, the entire wall that overlooked the road (_perfect for an_ _evening_ _stakeout_), some white flowerpots a few meters distant from each other and a Vespa motorbike that made a beautiful show of itself a short distance from the front door, made it easy to infer the type of restaurant even before reading the sign.

_"La Famiglia."_

-It's an Italian restaurant-said John turning back to look at the man next to him.

Sherlock hinted a smile.

-Great deduction John-comment.

-Why didn't you choose "Angelo's”? - he asked confused.

-It was pointed out to me that since I invited you, I could not use my acquaintances to get a free dinner, because on a date, the one who made the proposal, in this case me, must pay the bill.

Also, Angelo's would not be the right place as everyone already thinks we are a couple-added the black-haired man.

A smug smile stretched out John's lips.

"And we're not?" John asked him to tease him.

Sherlock looked at the sky good-naturedly and sighed.

-How can we be already a couple? It’s our first date! -

The smile on John's face grew even bigger, and the next moment the doctor took the few steps that separated them and stroked the lapels of the detective's coat with his gloved fingers.

"You were serious when you said you wanted to woo me" he said, meeting the man's icy-blue eyes.

Taking advantage of John's good mood, Sherlock placed a hand on John's right side, and approached the man's face, moving his lips closer to his right cheek before changing direction at the last moment and bending over to his ear.

"You haven't seen anything yet" Sherlock murmured.

John felt a shiver running down his back the moment before Sherlock moved away and went back to look at the restaurant's blue door.

"Shall we?" asked the detective, a hand on the handle.

John nodded and followed him inside the restaurant.

The restaurant was cozy and familiar with blue and white tiles on the walls, recalling the exterior, black-and-white pictures hanging on the walls to witness the decades of activity.

The tables with white tablecloths were placed at a discreet distance one from another so that the conversation of a table did not interfere with the neighbor's.

The waiter led them to a table, obviously near the stained-glass window on the street, and after getting rid of their coats, the two men sat opposite each other.

The waiter brought them the menus and took care to list the specials of the day, then took the order for the wine and moved quickly away without proposing to arrange a candle to make the atmosphere more romantic.

_"I like this place more and more" _John thought, looking up from his menu and staring at Sherlock's face, still immersed in reading.

A thought crossed the doctor's mind, pointing out the similarities and differences between that date and their first dinner at Angelo’s, during the case of the lady in pink, and a slight smile stretched out his lips.

-So... Do you have a girlfriend? -John asked Sherlock, trying to hide the amused tone in his voice.

At that question Sherlock looked up at him, clearly surprised, but the next moment his face relaxed and an enigmatic expression took possession of his features.

-Girlfriend? No, it's not really my area-answered the detective, remembering perfectly that night.

-Oh... A boyfriend then? -asked again John.

"I wouldn't be here if I had one, don't you think?" said the detective.

John nodded slowly, granting him that little victory.

Sherlock stared at him for a few moments, unsure whether to address that subject immediately or whether to wait until the main course.

In doing so, however, he would run the risk of ruining the evening, finding himself with the bill to pay without having had dinner at all.

Driven by his instincts, Sherlock decided to take a risk.

"To be honest, I have to confess that there is an important person in my life... - he said, meeting John's gaze again and noticing his surprised expression.

\- I have a son, Hamish... He's almost eight months old and lives with me, but there's no one else besides him-

John nodded slowly, at first confused, then pleasantly surprised that Sherlock had wanted to recognize Hamish's presence in his life with such confidence and, unexpectedly, found himself hinting at a smile.

"Maybe I should have waited until the main course to tell you about my situation...- hastened to add Sherlock, clearly insecure.

John shook his head and turned that small smile at the detective, sure that it would be enough to reassure him.

-Not at all.

I've just been caught off guard, it's the first time I go on a date with a single father -John said.

This time it was Sherlock who smiled, leaning slightly forward towards the doctor.

"And is that a good thing or a bad thing?" he asked.

Following his example, John leaned closer to the center of the table, bringing their faces within walking distance of each other.

-There's only one way to find out-

With an almost unnatural effort, Sherlock returned to his own half of the table and took once again the menu in his hands, his lips still bent in an affable smile.

Moments later the waiter approached their table and presented them the wine and asked if they had already decided what to order and, after a quick glance at the menu, Sherlock ordered a vegetarian lasagna for himself and a porcini mushroom risotto for John in perfect Italian, leaving John speechless.

It wasn't the first time the detective had been showing off his knowledge of languages, but each time it was a pleasure: to hear the way Sherlock's low, vibrant voice modulated around the different rhythms of French, Spanish or in this case Italian always left John breathless and excited.

When the waiter walked away again, Sherlock looked up at the blonde man, clearly reading his emotions on his face and hinting a smile, feeling slightly more confident.

Maybe he wasn't doing so badly so far.

"Tell me something about yourself" he said, remembering what he had read in the many articles on the internet.

He knew everything about John, he just needed a look to capture his most hidden desires, but he was aware that it would be "not good" if he deducted his partner on their first date; probably John, being the special and wonderful person he was, would find him brilliant, but he would go against the rules of wooing, and for once in his life, Sherlock wanted to follow the rules all the way.

John greeted his words with an amused smile before straightening his back and starting to speak.

"I'm a doctor. I used to be a surgeon, but at the moment I work at a local clinic, I live with my roommate in a flat in central London and I'm single" he said, summarizing his life in a few words.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow, pouring wine into both glasses.

"You're not the type who give a lot of self-information" he said.

_Look, he's talking... _thought John hinting at a smile and clutching the fingers of his left hand around the glass.

-I'm a simple man. All you see in front of you is all I am-answered enigmatically.

-Mh... I wouldn't be so sure-answered the detective skeptical.

Clearly intrigued, John leaned to the middle of the table still clear of plates at the moment and met Sherlock’s gaze almost daring him to read the small and insignificant elements that were "obvious" on his face and on his clothes and to list his deductions.

-Is that so? What do you see? -

Sherlock was almost tempted to take up his challenge, clearly seeing how John was offering himself to his deductions, aware of the pleasure they would both derive from it, but merely granted him an enigmatic smile and slightly leaned towards him without ever leaving John’s eyes.

-Maybe one day I'll tell you-

John swallowed visibly, curbing the desire to reach out a hand, sinking his fingers into those black curls he knew to be soft and thick, get their faces closer and taking possession of those drawn lips.

Slightly clearing his voice, John leaned back toward his own half of the table, raising his own glass and bringing it to his lips for a quick sip, managing to catch Sherlock's triumphant smile with the tail of his eye.

"I read your blog" said John, once he put his glass on the table.

"Mine or my colleague's?"asked the detective.

"To be honest, I read them both" John replied.

Their diligent waiter interrupted them again with their orders and only when they were alone again and after taking a bite from their plate (remembering Lestrade's advice), Sherlock spoke again.

"What did you think?"he asked.

-Mh... You write that you can recognize a airplane pilot by his thumb...-started John between morsels.

-That's right-

-While your colleague, he says that sometimes you are "incredibly ignorant" when it comes to some topics...-added John with a wry smile.

-That wasn't his best post-commented Sherlock without acrimony.

John chuckled.

"I don't have a hard time believing you" he said.

The memory of the discussion they had when Sherlock had read that post was still alive in his memory (and not only for the explosion that had occurred a few minutes after he had walked out from Baker Street) and into the walls of their apartment.

Sherlock had never forgiven him for that post because he had exposed some of his weaknesses and made him look "human" in the eyes of readers.

John put down his fork and stared at Sherlock's face for a few moments, before Sherlock's eyes met his.

-So, who's the real Sherlock Holmes?

The one in your blog or what we see in your colleague's posts? -asked John sincerely curious.

Impressed by that question, Sherlock forgot about his food and focused on John.

-If what you are looking for is analytical and complete truth about my knowledge and my abilities, then my blog is for you but if you want to know "the man behind the method" then you should read my colleague's blog- Sherlock replied the next moment.

John nodded.

"In this way, reading both I will know everything about you?" John commented with a playful smile that also infected Sherlock.

-No one ever knows everything about a person... Let’s just say it’s as close as it can be to part of the truth... -Sherlock said before returning silent seized by a sudden thought, his gaze still on John’s face- Unless...-

"Unless?"repeated John, an arched eyebrow, aware of the sudden change in his companion.

It was a crazy idea, something that he never allowed anyone, and that could turn quickly into a disaster, but if there was one person worth a try for, that was John.

"Unless you ask the person directly" he replied.

An incredulous expression appeared on John's face, leading him to forget his food as well and focus his all attention on Sherlock.

"R-really?" he asked.

Sherlock nodded.

"Ask me anything you want to know, and I will answer" he said sincerely.

"And will you be completely sincere?"asked the other.

-The point of this date is to get to know each other and if I lied, you wouldn't be able to decide if it's worth going out a second time with me...-explained Sherlock.

"But I wouldn't be able to recognize your lies" John pointed out, aware of the man acting abilities.

It had happened to him several times during their collaboration to observe the instant transformation: as a snake gets rid of its own skin, Sherlock freed himself of his detached and "insensitive" aura to become affectionate, caring or even fascinating to get the information needed to solve a case.

"I'm going to be completely honest" the detective promised him.

John stared at him a few seconds before nodding: such an offer would never happen again, and John was aware that he had to take advantage of it now to shed light on some dark spots that always accompanied and tormented his friend.

Without looking away from the perfect face of the detective, he took a long sip of wine, grouping his ideas together, and when he felt ready, John took a deep breath.

-Okay, let’s do this... Is Sherlock really your name? -he asked.

A slight smile appeared on the black-haired man’s face.

-That’s my middle name.

When I started my career, I realized that Sherlock would attract my clients much more than my real name- Sherlock confessed.

"So, what's your "real" name?"asked John, genuinely curious.

Sherlock looked down for a moment, letting out a frustrated sigh, before meeting his eyes again.

-William.

William Sherlock Scott Holmes-

For a moment John was speechless, in disbelief at discovering that Sherlock, _his_ Sherlock, actually had a name as common and "ordinary" as William.

Then the astonishment gave way to pride and love: knowing the man in front of him, there were only two people in the world who knew his real name and learning that secret once again demonstrated the depth of the detective's feelings.

-Wow...-

-My brother is called Mycroft- Sherlock started explaining without giving John time to ask something else- So my parents when I was born gave me a simple and boring name hoping to make things easy for me-

"And did they succeed?" asked the doctor, already knowing the answer.

-I wouldn't say so...

I had a great childhood: my father was a teacher, a real genius and we were really close, and, in some ways, I think I was also close to my brother, since he shared my intelligence- said Sherlock.

"It’s not like that anymore?" John asked.

A sad smile appeared on Sherlock's face, fading the next moment behind his friendly expression.

-All good things must come to an end, isn't that what they say?

When I was eighteen, my father died and from that moment my troubled years began...- he said, turning his gaze in to the restaurant to detach himself from those memories, focusing briefly on the faces of other diners, discovering within a few moments their lives and their secrets, before returning to stare at John.

Sherlock had always tried to hide his drug-addicted past from the other man; it was part of his life, but from day one of his main goal had been to hide from John the extent to which he had lowered himself in order to have a fix, the nights spent on the street, or that time when the overdose had been almost wanted, trying instead to fascinate John with his intelligence, his deductions and his work.

All to hide that dark part of himself...

And perhaps, just aware of his thoughts, John came to his rescue.

-When I was a kid, I used to get in a lot of fist fights with other kids... Was it the same for you? -asked him in a calm voice, as if he were commenting on the pages of the newspaper in search of an interesting murder.

-I was a skinny long-limbed kid and I hadn't taken street fight lessons from the homeless, I wouldn't have lasted two minutes in a fight.

Why were you punching kids? - Sherlock asked curiously.

From the beginning Sherlock was fascinated by the calm and peaceful appearance of the doctor under whom lurked a violent stream, ready to explode at the first sign of danger.

John took a new sip from his glass and then filled both glasses again, before beginning to talk.

\- I come from Aldershot, a small town not far from London, where everyone knows each other and knows everything about them.

When I was 16, my sister Harriet, came out to my parents as a lesbian, and within two days the whole city knew about it.

It wasn't a big shock to me, it was years since I first saw her locking herself in the room with her friends or sneaking out of her window when our parents went to sleep, but for a couple of months we were the city's favorite gossip-

"You were just trying to get them to stop harassing your sister" said Sherlock perfectly capable to see a teenage John fist fighting a bunch of kids to defend his sister's honor.

John nodded, an amused smile on his lips.

-Harry would get really pissed with me...

She kept telling me that she was the oldest, that she didn't need my macho attitude, that she was capable to defend herself... But it was my sister and I would have done anything to protect her from those idiots-

-John Watson... Always ready to defend the weakest- Sherlock said with a small smile.

The doctor remained silent, fiddling with the fork for a few moments before Sherlock spoke again.

"After my father died, I started taking drugs" he said, looking for John’s gaze.

He needed to know that nothing had changed for John, that having definitive confirmation of what had been only a suspicion so far, did not make him different in his eyes; that for John his deductions would always remain brilliant, that the feeling between them would not be tainted because of his past...

And almost aware of the inferno that was stirring inside him, Sherlock found John's eyes waiting for him, as affectionate and warm as ever, despite the slight concern they let out.

-I started with a few joints to calm my frantic thoughts, but soon some "friends" pointed out to me that there were other drugs that would give me the same effect but with a longer length.

I tried amphetamines, I tried LSD, although I have to admit it wasn't a very wise choice given my hyperactive mind, and eventually I switched to heroin and then cocaine.

Cocaine was my favorite- Sherlock ended in an analytical and detached tone.

John wet his lips inexplicably dry with the tip of his tongue, and did to speak again, but the waiter materialized for the umpteenth time at their table to ask them if everything had been to their liking and if he could take away the dishes.

"What made you stop?" John asked after clearing his throat once they were alone again.

-My job.

One night I was walking back to my apartment, high as a kite, and by chance I came across a crime scene: a woman had been strangled and her body left on the sidewalk.

Lestrade, a young sergeant at the time, wandered around and tried to figure out how it had happened; I slipped under the police tape and approached the corpse looking for evidence" the detective recounted.

John chuckled, imagining perfectly the scene.

-Did you solve the case? -

-Of course, it was a trivial murder of passion.

But Lestrade wouldn't believe me and arrested me for possession of narcotics-

This time John's laughter was louder, echoing for a few moments in the restaurant.

"What happened then?"asked the blonde man curious.

-I left the next morning, and my brother avoided any charges being made against me.

Before I could vanish, the sergeant stopped me to tell me that my intuitions were correct and that I was an idiot because I was wasting my gift with cocaine- Sherlock concluded.

"I couldn't agree more” said John.

-After the speech, I left... It took me two years and two overdoses to convince me to stop taking drugs for good- eventually added Sherlock.

Once again, John found himself with a dry throat, confronted with the naked truth: the fact that Sherlock was there in front of him, perfect despite all his flaws and mistakes, was almost a miracle.

Many times, the man had risked his life, sometimes because of his dangerous lifestyle, other times because of the reckless choices made in the past.

The same discourse could also be applied for himself: he had risked his life several times during his years of service in the Army, or running fearlessly behind the most varied criminals on the streets of London, and finally he had been on the verge of throwing away his own life several times when Sherlock was away.

The mere fact that they were both sitting at that table was clearly a sign of fate.

With that new consideration in mind, John reached out on the table and clasped his fingers around Sherlock’s pale and elongated fingers, seizing the brief tension that crossed Sherlock's muscles at that unexpected gesture.

"Thank you for telling me" he said, sinking his gaze into Sherlock's.

The detective merely nodded, still clearly surprised, but his tapered fingers relaxed around John's small ones without making any mention of breaking that brief connecting point.

With his free hand, Sherlock took a long sip from his glass, wearing his armor again, before looking back at John.

-So, John Watson... What secrets are hidden under this friendly smile and your charming face? -he asked, turning slightly towards him, resting his arm on the table.

John smiled, slightly amused by that question: what secrets did he hide?

"Secrets?" he asked, jokingly raising an eyebrow.

At first glance John Watson was the average English man: slightly boring, reliable, whose life was punctuated by work five days a week and football every Saturday afternoon; lover of tea and chocolate biscuits, books and incredibly incompetent with all forms of technology, and whose ultimate aspiration for a perfect Saturday night was to sit on the sofa in front of the TV with Chinese food take outs.

At first glance everyone would have discarded John Watson without worrying about going deeper and getting to know him better...

Without even imagining the wonderful man with many different sides who hid under those horrible sweaters.

-We all have secrets. You just need to know where to look for them.

You told me you were born in a small town, you talked about your sister... And I can tell from your posture that you've had some kind of military training-replied Sherlock, a dry smile on his face.

That smile also infected John, leading him to nod slowly for a few moments, trying to control the praise that automatically came on his lips every time Sherlock showed off his gift.

-Okay. Like you said, I'm from Aldershot, and I have a sister, Harry, who's three years older than me.

My mother died seven years ago, while my father is a retired cook who still lives in the old family home.

I'm a doctor, I was once a surgeon specializing in emergency medicine, and as you brilliantly inferred, I was a soldier.

I served in Her Majesty's Army for almost ten years- John concluded.

"Was it the need to do your part for Queen and the country that made you join the Army?" asked the detective, never turning his gaze away from the blonde man’s face.

John chuckled slightly and shook his head: if there was one thing Sherlock had never made a mystery about it was his annoyance at anything that was even remotely connected to the institutions or the monarchy.

Definitely another way to annoy Mycroft...

-No, I wouldn't say...

I joined the Army because I wanted to be a doctor.

At the time, my family didn't do very well financially, and since Harry had also enrolled in law school, my only alternative was to pay for my studies alone by taking twice as long to graduate, or to put aside my dreams and start working in the family restaurant.

During my last year, my high school set up a "Work of the Future Day": various stands were installed in the Assembly Hall with all possible information about various job possibilities.

There were a lot of people, from Mr. Smith, the workshop owner to Mrs. Hallywell, the hospital nurse, and I remember that every stand had pamphlets with all the information you could need to "choose your future" -John recalled with an amused smile.

"Did the guy in the Army booth have any prosthetics?"asked Sherlock.

The blond shook hishead, slightly amused.

-No, they had chosen a distinguished, gray-haired man with an elegant profile... They needed to show the "pleasant" side of the Army: I don't think they would attract many people with a soldier scarred by battle.

I was convinced it was a complete waste of time and I wouldn't even have been there if it wasn't mandatory... Anyway, I was there wandering around the stands when I stopped next to the Army and this man started making conversation: the Captain told me about life in the Army, how much it strengthened your character and allowed you to make friendships that would last for the rest of his life, he told me that the Army allowed me to travel the world...-

Sherlock let loose an ironic laugh.

-I know... But I had nothing to do, and I thought if my teachers saw me talking to the Captain, they'd let me go home.

He asked me about school, the subjects I had chosen to graduate into, and what my grades were, and then he asked me what I would do after high school.

I told him that I wanted to be a doctor, but that I would probably spend the rest of my life in my father's restaurant because of the college costs and he showed me this pamphlet... I still remember it like it was yesterday.

Long story short, the Army did finance my studies and internship and in return I joined the Army and once I graduated, I offered my medical skills as a military doctor.

At the time, it didn't seem like an absurd exchange... The 9/11 attack was still a long way off, and it took me 12 hours to show up at a barracks and enlist myself- John took a sip from his glass.

-And did they keep their promise? Did they show you the world? -Sherlock asked him, a veil of irony in his eyes.

John's face opened into an amused smile.

"They certainly didn't take me to Rome or Paris" he said.

-Paris is decidedly overrated-Sherlock said in a bored tone.

-I’ll have to believe you... The first time I left the country, they sent me to Ireland for a month.

Some kind of training and test at the same time... But for those who came back alive, it was a struggle for survival... There was no day without an explosion... When my tour ended, they handed me a medal as if being still alive and sane after that experience deserved an award.

After that I was in Kabul and finally in Afghanistan- John recalled.

-How was it? -

John remained silent for a few moments, thinking back to the memories of those years he usually kept hidden in a dark ravine of his mind, rethinking the negative and positive things of his years in the Army.

-It was nice, and it was bad.

It was bad for obvious reasons, no one should ever learn so closely about human cruelty and greed, but... There were flashes of humanity...

Sometimes it was a simple sunset over the desert after a sleepless night spent watching, or two days of peace without troubles, or even just talking to the locals and trying to learn their dialect, even if in the end you ended up knowing only swearword...

The people who were part of your battalion, on whom your life depends and who within a week you begin to consider your new family... All these things have made my years in the Army worth remembering despite everything- John concluded with a sad smile.

Sherlock's thumb, still clenched in his hand, moved slightly starting to caress his knuckles, in an intimate and reassuring gesture, as if he wanted to bring him back to reality, reminding him that at that moment John was there with him, in a restaurant of London and that all was well.

"What happened?" Sherlock asked, his voice slightly lower.

John didn't need to ask him for an explanation.

Suddenly shy, John looked down and laid his eyes on the purple shirt that covered the detective’s chest.

-One morning we were called out: there were at least three wounded about ten miles from our hospital.

Usually the medical staff doesn’t go out of the camp, but that day we were understaffed so me and two other doctors jumped aboard the Rover and went to pick up the wounded.

There were four men... One of them was still a little boy, he would not have been more than twelve years old- John said, looking up and taking a deep breath.

With a long sip he finished the wine still in his glass and met for a moment Sherlock’s gaze, aware that despite his curiosity, the man would interrupt that conversation at the first hint of uneasiness on John's part.

But the doctor felt he had to be at least as sincere as Sherlock had been with him: he had told him a part of himself that he kept hidden and which he clearly was ashamed of, and now it was time to show him that, despite everything, John trusted him completely.

-We knew those men; they had come to the camp a couple of times.

There had been a shooting and while three of them had been lightly wounded, the boy was bleeding heavily from one leg... Bill and Joe took care of the other three, and I focused on him, knowing that I had to stop the bleeding if I wanted to bring him back to camp.

I stopped the bleeding and we were almost ready to go when they started shooting at us... My first thought was the boy, so I tried to protect him while Bill and Joe loaded the others into the Rover" he recalled.

-I know I should have waited for one of the other guys to come and help me out, but in that moment my only thought was that I had to get that kid out of there as soon as possible, so I tried to drag him to the Rover... And that's when I got hit.

It came from a different angle, completely unexpected, and I was so focused on my patient...

Bill saved me and the kid by loading us up on the Rover, but we had to wait fifteen minutes before we could leave for the camp.

When we arrived at the camp, the most serious patient was me...-concluded with a smile devoid of irony.

He cleared his throat and returned to meet Sherlock's gaze.

-Long story short, the bullet damaged some nerves in the right shoulder and the fifteen minutes of stand by brought severe blood loss and as a result, favored septicaemia.

When I started to recover ten days later, they told me that the damage to my shoulder was almost certainly irreparable and that I could no longer operate.

I was discharged by the Army with honor as Captain Watson and returned to London- John concluded.

Sherlock read the sense of helplessness and the suicidal thoughts that had overwhelmed John on his return to London in the tension of his face and shoulders, but merely nodded.

"What happened to the boy?" he asked.

-Oh... They managed to save him, even though they had to amputate his leg-

-So, it was a series of unfortunate events that brought us here tonight-remarked Sherlock.

John hinted a smile at those words.

"Romantic people would say it's fate" said John, clearly more relieved now that they had changed the subject.

Sherlock shrugged.

-I don't believe in fate. I don't like the idea of leaving my life in the hands of an unknown entity-

John nodded.

-I agree.

As far as I'm concerned, I consider myself lucky- John said, an insistent look fixed on the detective's face.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow, struck by those words, but before he could add anything else, the waiter approached their table with the desserts he had ordered at the beginning of the evening to surprise John.

The doctor glanced at the chocolate cheesecake placed in front of him, on his face a pleasantly surprised expression; the detective noticed the look that John threw at the slice of tiramisu that Sherlock had chosen for himself, clearly reading on the blonde's face the question that John preferred not to ask aloud, before taking a piece of his cheesecake.

The moment the man's lips closed around the cake, a satisfied and erotic to the point of being almost sinful moan broke the silence between them, increasing Sherlock’s heartbeats.

Sherlock observed the small movements of his companion's jaw, busy enjoying the first bite, then sliding his gaze over his throat the moment he saw him swallowing.

When John opened his eyes again, meeting his gaze, a satisfied smile come to his lips promptly, leading Sherlock to focus on his dessert to avoid awkward moments.

-So... Sherlock Holmes - said John's voice as warm and soft as the chocolate that covered the cheesecake.

\- How come an attractive man full of interests like you is still single? – John asked him bringing a new piece to his mouth without taking his eyes off the face of the detective.

Sherlock, slightly more confident, looked up at John, hinting at a snigger.

"I've been told several times that I'm not an easy person to live with" he said, taking a fork of his own dessert in turn.

To that statement, an expression and shock so genuine arose on John's face, causing the thunderous laugh of the detective and leading their table neighbors to cast curious glances at the couple.

"I really can't imagine why" John said smiling amused.

-I play the violin in the early hours of the morning... It helps me organize my thoughts and relaxes me- Sherlock explained as if it were the most natural thing inthe world.

John tilted his head, in his mind the memory of the first time the detective had informed him of his "weirdness".

-I can understand that it can be annoying for some people...- John commented.

-I conduct my experiments in the kitchen of my apartment-

"Have you ever caused any explosion?" asked John, again focused on his dessert.

"The only explosion that caused significant damage to the apartment and the street was not caused by my experiment" said Sherlock.

John shrugged; he often complained about Sherlock's experiments, but a part of himself was calm every time he saw Sherlock folded into his microscope, refuting a thesis expressed in a medical journal, or rejecting a suspect's alibi.

-I have always been in favor of research-

"There are severed body parts in my fridge" Sherlock added.

John raised an eyebrow, a wry smile on his lips.

"Dead bodies of your exes?" he asked, trying to hold back a laugh.

Sherlock, for the first time since they had sat at the table, rolled his eyes and shook his head.

-Of course, not... They come from the Bart’s Hospital morgue: corpses donated to science and a pathologist friend of mine occasionally lets me kindly take away with me some parts that might serve me for an experiment- he explained to him.

It was the first time Sherlock had referred to Molly as a "_friend_" and John smiled, thinking that if the woman was present she would probably burst into tears or faint with emotion, but no one deserved that title more than Molly, considering everything she had done for the detective before his disappearance.

"Are you trying to discourage me?" asked John to Sherlock.

A new tension had descended between them, leading them to unconsciously decrease the distance between them and rendering them unable to move their gaze away from that of the other for more than a few instants.

With an innocent expression on his face, Sherlock bowed his head as if he wanted to speak in the doctor's right ear.

-Absolutely not...-said Sherlock looking at him from behind long black eyelashes- But I think you have to know everything if we want to hang out...-

John nodded slowly.

-True.

Then maybe it's time to tell you that when I got back to London my therapist diagnosed me with Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder-confessed John.

-Mh. I don’t know your therapist, but it's obvious that he’s wrong-commented Sherlock.

"How can you say that?" responded John. -I could have a collection of guns and rifles in my apartment...-

-It's true, you could... But if there were hundreds of guns in your apartment, then you wouldn't have resisted the temptation to take one with you, maybe tucked under your vest, to "precaution" and to protect yourself and me.

Plus, you're a doctor, you've worked in war zones, and you don't look like the kind of guy who, after seeing the destruction that weapons carry with them, enjoys playing with it- Sherlock said.

John stared at him for a few seconds, before blinking and smiling.

-Excellent-

A chill of pleasure run down the detective's back, an automatic reaction that only John's compliments could provoke; trying to maintain control over his own body, Sherlock merely hinted a smile and brought a hand closer to the center of the table in the hope that John would mimic his action soon.

"Excluding the PTSD, what other dark secrets do you hide?"he asked, moving his long legs under the table.

-Ah, let’s see... Sometimes I have nightmares, a little present of my years in the Army- began John, carelessly rubbing his forehead.

_And your death..._

"I can understand it" Sherlock said, clearly reading what the other man had been silent about.

-My friends say I'm an adrenaline junkie" the doctor added.

-Oh, really interesting... And tell me, from one junkie to another: how do you get your fix? -asked him the black-haired man in a conspirator tone.

John gave him a small smile.

-My roommate and I hunt down criminals, only the interesting ones though, collaborating with Scotland Yard, running around the streets of London and risking our lives while I try at the same time to keep us safe and alive-summed up the blonde.

"I knew there was so much more under this calm and reassuring look... - Sherlock commented intrigued.

John laughed and shook his head.

-Don't kid yourself. I'm still a simple and even slightly dull man-John retort teasingly.

-A simple man who is becoming more and more interesting every passing minute...-

John met his companion's icy-blue eyes and, as a few times before, found them liquid, alive and free to express the feelings that usually the man hid under lock and key in a chamber of his Mind Palace: he managed to see the fun for their banter, the affection that always bound him to John, the expectations he had for that evening, the fear of not knowing what the next move would be.

It would have taken a small gesture to make all those conflicting thoughts fade away and to make that wonderful mind still and silent for a few precious moments, but just as the distance between them was about to diminish further, John remembered being in a public place and how Sherlock had always hated public displays of affection, so he merely took the detective's hand again, weaving his fingers around the pale, tapered ones.

"Tell me about your son" he said to break the lengthy silence.

For a few moments Sherlock seemed to have no idea what John was talking about, until his brain gave him the right information and he nodded briefly.

-Oh... His name is Hamish and like I said before he's almost eight months old, but to be honest I only knew I was a father two weeks ago.

His mother left him in my apartment and disappeared-

"Does he look like you?"asked John with a mischievous smile, knowing all too well the answer.

-I'm told we look alike. Poor boy-commented Sherlock.

John smiled: it was well known that Sherlock had no idea how attractive he was.

"Honestly, I don't think there's anything wrong with your appearance" John said.

-Mh. Always so charming…-

This time it was John's turn to roll his eyes upwards, before returning serious, fighting with himself for a few moments before asking the next question.

"Are you still in touch with his mother?" he asked in a marginally lower voice.

Although Sherlock said he had not seen her since he was in Berlin, this did not rule out that they could have spoken through text, especially now that Hamish was in Baker Street.

Sherlock shook his head.

-No, she...

She's like the severed body parts in my fridge- he said, leading the other to arch a surprised eyebrow. - An experiment... We had a great intellectual affinity, but nothing else- Sherlock explained.

John nodded slowly as the waiter arrived reflecting on those words: no one knew better than him that the stumps in their fridge only kept Sherlock's attention for a short time, sometimes ending up being forgotten without even being worthy of a second look, but could he really apply the same logic to Irene?

When he distanced himself from his thoughts, John noticed that Sherlock had just finished paying the bill and for a few moments was tempted to protest, but then he remembered the main goal of that dinner and just looked up at his companion.

"Do you have to go home right away?" asked Sherlock.

-No, I don't think so... My roommate didn't send me any text all night, that may mean that everything is fine or that my apartment exploded in an attempt to fight boredom, but I think I can stay out a little longer" he said, smiling wryly at Sherlock.

Sherlock looked up and shook his head, before standing up imitated the next moment by John.

Moments later they were in the street, wrapped in their coats and walked aimlessly along the Chelsea Embankment, silently observing the sporadic passers-by.

-I love London at night... It is as if a mystical and sensual entity were showing to our eyes as the sun went down.

A different humanity comes out as soon as it gets dark, and you feel like you're in a completely different city without even coming out of the neighborhood - John commented, turning his head slightly towards Sherlock, aware that he was also giving voice to his thoughts.

The two men continued to walk in silence until they reached Albert Bridge, one of the few English bridges whose passage was reserved exclusively for pedestrians and public transport.

For once, Sherlock had let John approach him and overtake him, walking unhurriedly and enjoying the cold evening air.

Suddenly John turned and looked at him, starting to walk backwards and hinting at a mischievous smile.

-So, Mr. Holmes... You haven't answered my question before.

Why a man so charming is still single? -John asked.

An ironic grin curved Sherlock’s plump lip.

Throughout the evening, the detective had been honest, answering John's questions without any problem, sharing with the doctor a part of himself that he would rather keep quiet forever and for a moment he wondered what was the most suitable choice: say once again the truth or tell only a part of it, the one that would have pleased the doctor?

-I fell in love twice in my life- Sherlock began, making his decision.

\- The first time I was sixteen, I was at university and most of the students who attended my courses thought I was someone to avoid because of my intelligence... except one.

Victor-

John stared at him in silence, stopping in the middle of the bridge, resting his back against the balustrade, his hands sunk into the pockets of his jacket to shelter from the cold wind.

-Victor found me interesting and was not bothered by my deductions, he actually found them brilliant.

He came from a rich family like me; his father had founded a publishing house... We became lovers three months after we met and he was with me when I learned of my father's death-

Fighting against the memories that were overwhelmingly trying to make its way into his mind, Sherlock observed the slow flow of the Thames under their feet, as always unperturbed and indifferent of the hectic life of the city that had arisen around it.

-He tried to help me, to be close to me, he also tried to understand me, however difficult that task may be, but when I started doing cocaine, he realized there was nothing he could do.

-I heard he got married and took his father's place in the family business, so we probably weren't meant to last... I could never have been a trophy husband or worse his lover- Sherlock ended without acrimony.

John stepped forward and remained silent as he watched his friend, aware that whatever he said would be the wrong thing; only when Sherlock met his gaze again, John felt that all was fine.

"Have you ever seen him again?" he asked, his voice peaceful.

The detective shook his head, before hinting a smile.

-He is an avid reader of my colleague's blog and for a few years I received a greeting card at Christmas, but we never met again -Sherlock said, thus closing the topic once and for all.

John nodded, wrapping himself more in his coat to fight the cold.

"What about the second person?" John asked curious and eager to change the subject.

John was ninety percent sure that the second person was Irene, especially after Hamish's arrive at Baker Street, but what the detective had said about the woman during their dinner was anything but a declaration of love...

But who could say that with Sherlock Holmes?

The detective sank his gaze into his eyes and allowed himself one of his rare smiles.

-Well... Let's just say I'm still working on it...-Sherlock simply just said staring at John firmly.

John took ten seconds to understand the true meaning of those words before letting go of a happy and surprised smile; he wanted to grab the lapels of Sherlock's Belstaff and succumb to the temptation of those drawn lips, but decided that for the moment he would be content to slide a hand on the solid chest of the man, covered by the coat.

"What about you?"asked Sherlock, observing for a moment John’s hand now on the third button of his purple shirt before meeting John's eyes again- How many hearts have you broken in your life? -

John allowed himself a little smile.

-Not many... I wasn't a saint, that's true, and I admit I had my meaningless affairs, both as a boy and during my years in the Army.

But I've always managed to separate sex and love, so I'd say... Three times.

-The first time I was a kid, I was 15 years old and like everyone I believed that I had found the love of my life and that we would be together forever.

It's was over after two weeks- he recounted with an amused smile on his lips.

Sherlock looked away for an instant, making no attempt to hide the amused grin that bent his lips.

-She left me for a boy two years older with a motorcycle.

"Really stupid" Sherlock said, making the other man laugh.

-It was a really great bike. I think it partly justified the pain of the break-up- retorted John ironically.

Unconsciously or perhaps to protect his companion from the cold wind, Sherlock stepped forward, taking John in front of him, almost no distance between them, leading John to slightly raise his face to lower the difference and meet his look.

-The second time I was in college, her name was Susan, and I really thought she was the one.

During my internship at the hospital, we talked several times about getting married and starting a family right after my first tour, but just before I left for Ireland she told me that although she loved me, she couldn't continue our relationship: she couldn't bear the idea of spending her days next to the phone or waiting for a letter constantly thinking about what might happen to me-John revealed.

-This woman is even dumber than the first one... Sherlock commented.

-At first I was furious, but I accepted her reasons: no one likes to spend their days in the hope of receiving news, or a short phone call, not knowing if that will be the day when an unknown soldier knocks on your door to tell you that your boyfriend died-

Sherlock's eyes, focused on his face, hid a constantly moving universe behind the transparent irides, and John arched a curious eyebrow.

"What is it?" he asked.

The other shook his head.

-Mh... Nothing - he simply answered.

\- What about the last time? – the detective asked him determined to distract John's attention.

It was an instinctive decision: the moment before, John's back was still resting against the balustrade of the bridge, a hand engaged in fiddling with one of the buttons of the Belstaff, the next that same hand had risen behind Sherlock’s neck, his fingers to caress soft curls at the nape of his neck, bringing the detective closer to himself, the body pressed against Sherlock’s.

His lips closed around Sherlock's lower lip, gently touching him, his eyes still open to meet the other's, reading the surprise before Sherlock let go and responded to the kiss, closing his eyes and putting a hand on John’s left side.

It was a sweet and almost timid kiss, different from all they had exchanged so far, without the urgent need to turn that gesture of affection and love into something more passionate.

In those few moments, Sherlock understood the real reason why sex and feelings had never seemed interesting to him; in all those years, a fundamental component had always been lacking.

_John._

When the doctor finally opened his eyes, a satisfied smile appeared on his lips as soon as he met Sherlock's gaze.

-Well... The premises are decidedly positive...- John whispered at close range from his face.

Sherlock let out a short chuckled, lowering his head until he laid his forehead against John's, without making a move to untie the embrace.

-We'd better go home. It's getting late and I'm really starting to get cold-commented John at the end.

Sherlock nodded and dissolved the embrace, settling next to John and sliding one hand into his, weaving their fingers, spotting the satisfied smile on the other man’s face.

Finding a taxi anywhere in the city and at any time had never been a problem for Sherlock Holmes, so a few minutes later they were already comfortably seated inside a black cab headed for Baker Street.

Unlike the journey a few hours earlier, the two men sat close to each other, their bodies touching each other from the elbow to the knees, the fingers of one hand intertwined with that of the other, as if they wanted to be certain that the other panicked, did not jump out of the moving vehicle all of the sudden, both serene and perfectly at ease in the silence that enveloped them.

Soon the cab stopped in front of the black door and, as John walked out to open the door, the detective stood back a few moments to pay for the ride, quickly wondering what would happen once they arrived at their apartment.

What did John expect from him?

Would they end up having sex?

The websites he had read that afternoon indicated that possibility but pointed out that it was highly inconvenient and that it would be better to avoid a second date with those who proved " easy".

Still, John wasn't an “easy” person... Of course he had had a fair number of affairs, he said so himself, but he had always been a gentleman and Sherlock thought it crazy to get away from John for such nonsense.

Once on the pavement, Sherlock closed the cab door behind him and walked slowly toward John, following him into the vestibule and then leading him up the stairs, feeling him distractedly locking the front door.

The detective entered their apartment and took off his coat and scarf, abandoning them as usual on the sofa.

Sherlock glanced around to realize that Hamish was still in Mrs. Hudson's apartment and was aware that he would have to go and get the baby, allowing the old woman to retire, but the uncertainty as to how the evening would end made him motionless, still in the middle of the drawing-room.

John entered the apartment and closed the door, smiling at Sherlock when he saw the detective standing still waiting.

He took off his coat as well, hanging it neatly by the door, and went to meet him, staying a short distance from the black-haired man.

"I had a really good evening," John said, stopping by his armchair.

Sherlock nodded slowly.

-Me too... Maybe we could go out again- Sherlock proposed, hoping to have a neutral tone.

John nodded, undecided on how to end that evening.

When he had locked the front door, he heard noises coming from Mrs. Hudson's apartment, a sign that the woman was still awake, waiting for Sherlock to pick up Hamish.

Their landlady had been too kind that night, even though she was no longer very young, and although John would gladly continue that date, perhaps it was better not to take too much advantage of the woman's kindness.

"I don't see why not" John said, turning around the armchair and approaching the stairs that would take him to his bedroom.

Sherlock saw him walking up the stairs, a sign that their date would be over soon, and he stepped towards the man.

"Ah, one last thing" Sherlock said, drawing John's attention back to himself.

\- If I was lucky enough to meet you when we were younger, even before your tour in Ireland, I wouldn't have allowed anything and no one to take you away from me.

Even at the cost of spending hours in front of a laptop or phone- Sherlock concluded, his eyes fixed in John's ocean-blue ones confirming his words.

John blushed slightly at those words, aware that Sherlock would move heaven and earth to stop his departure, even going so far as to ask Mycroft for help if it was necessary, but at that moment his words were sincere and John could not hold back the smile that stretched out his lips and led him to approach the detective.

"And you said I was the charming one…" John said, while with one hand he gently stroked a pale cheek.

"I just told the truth," said the black-haired man shrugging his shoulders.

John moved closer to the man's face and kissed him, putting all the feelings he had not voiced, and which sometimes cut his breath for their intensity, in that kiss.

-By the way... I like the name William-whispered John a short distance from his lips taking him by surprise.

Sherlock swallowed several times, trying to find something intelligent or even just coherent to say.

-Good night Sherlock-greeted the blond as he made his way back to the stairs.

-Good night John-

____________________________

London was shrouded in a thick blanket of clouds that morning.

Nothing different than usual, but for Sherlock Holmes that day was perfect: he was finally coming back to work!

After spending a fantastic evening with John, and picking up Hamish from apartment 221A, he had spent a few hours playing the violin, helping his roommates’ sleep ahead of the next morning's London Zoo date, but apparently there really was a higher entity.

And this one had to really love Sherlock Holmes if after the great evening spent with John, the first thing that Sherlock found waking up was a message from Lestrade calling him back to work.

When John had come down to the kitchen for breakfast, Sherlock had shown him the message, and the man had decided to accompany him, obviously after making him promise that as soon as the case was resolved he would keep his promise and spend a day with him and Hamish .

He had waited for John to be ready, changing Hamish and giving him his bottle, and after leaving him with Mrs. Hudson again, they had come out ready to face the new challenge.

Lestrade had sent him a SoHo address, so their cab took only twenty minutes to arrive at the crime scene.

Looking out the cab window, John watched the neighborhood almost sleepy with most of the clubs and shops closed and, when their taxi passed the "Pride" John tried to capture the detective's look through the window reflection, finding it detached, completely immersed in his own Mind Palace.

As soon as the cab stopped, the detective jumped out of the vehicle, headed for the area restricted by police cordons, leaving it to the doctor to pay for the ride.

When John finally approached the crime scene, he saw that they were on a side street, behind the "Ed's" restaurant a short distance from Shaftesbury Avenue, in a area busy both day and night: how had the killer not to be discovered?

John looked at Sherlock and saw him in a dumpster, immersed in the dustbin to his knees, looking at the corpse; the doctor passed the police tape and made to approach the dumpster when he heard the call.

He turned to his right and there he saw a black-haired boy, a hoodie that sheltered his slender figure from the cold and after a few moments he immediately knew who it was; the man came to meet him halfway and stopped a few steps away from him.

"You don't remember me, do you?" he asked with an embarrassed look.

John shook his head quickly, searching in his memory for the boy's name, when a light finally lit, and a name prevailed over everyone else.

-Of course I do.

How are you Tommy? - John asked with an affectionate smile.

Tommy had been the last person he had slept with before Sherlock showed up at "Pride" before things got terribly complicated between them... They had fun together, John remembered that the boy was affable, funny and that like him he had no high expectations from that night.

The perfect companion to spend an evening without complications.

-It's not bad. I wasn't sure you'd remember me- Tommy added sinking his hands into his pockets.

John smiled again.

-Of course I do.

Did you find the body? – he asked, noting the restaurant uniform under his coat.

Tommy nodded.

-I went out to throw the trash and noticed the body-

"Are you okay?"asked the doctor.

"He just found a body, he wasn't attacked by a pack of wolves" said a deep, clearly annoyed voice.

John turned to his left where with a changed attitude, not at all dented by the wet and smelly pants stood Sherlock Holmes, his gaze fixed on Tommy, clearly busy to read every little secret from the boy’s posture and hair.

-Tommy this is Sherlock Holmes. He works with Scotland Yard.

Sherlock this is Tommy, he found the corpse-said John making the introductions.

"I've heard a lot about you" Tommy said, returning the detective's gaze. -Do you have any questions for me? -

-I wouldn't say, no. It’s obvious that you can't help me with this boring case-replied Sherlock dryly.

-Sherlock…- John chastised him in a whisper before turning to Tommy- Did you know the victim? - he asked to Tommy in an affable tone.

-Everyone knew him: he called himself "Prince Henry" cause he was convinced he looked like the real prince- said Tommy with irony.

John frowned.

-I think I heard that name-

"He was hustling around here, sometimes he would come to the diner before he would go home" Tommy added.

"Actually I have a question-Sherlock interfered, leading the two men to turn to him- How was it? - he then asked, staring at Tommy.

The boy frowned slightly, clearly confused.

-Well... It was a shock and I don't think I'll feel safe around here for...

-No! I wasn’t talking about that, who cares about the corpse? -Sherlock abruptly interrupted him by making some agents not far from them turning to stare at him.

-Sherlock! -John scolded him again, this time with a slightly louder voice.

Tommy stared at the two men for a few seconds before focusing on the detective again.

"So what are you asking me, Mr. Holmes?"

Sherlock exhaled, clearly tired of ever having to explain even the most obvious things, before staring his cold gaze upon Tommy.

"What was it like sleeping with John?"he asked in a clear, authoritative voice.

-SHERLOCK! -

"Isn't it slightly inappropriate?"asked Tommy, looking at John whose face was red in anger.

-Who cares about appropriate? -

-I do! Stop! Stop it now! -John intruded, conveying all his anger in the low tone of his voice.

Finally Sherlock looked away from Tommy and move his glare to John, clearly challenging him to stop him, to give him a valid reason to interrupt that conversation.

-Why is that?

Is that something we need to keep hidden? I'm sure everyone in this neighborhood knows you and is aware of your prowess-Sherlock said in a sharp tone before bringing back his look on Tommy who had observed the exchange in disbelief.

"Now, back to us: how was it? "Sherlock asked again.

Making an instinctive decision, Tommy straightened his back, pulled his shoulders out, and returned Sherlock's gaze.

-Well, Mr. Holmes. If you're here asking questions, it's clear you've never tried it.

And from the way things are looking, it is clear that your chances are diminishing more and more and more- Tommy concluded.

Sherlock's back stiffened further at those words, while his mind was furiously searching for a sarcastic and stinging response that would silence the boy and reduce him to a cluster of nerves, but Tommy had already brought his attention back to John.

-It was good to see you, John.

Come to the diner one of these days, maybe we can find a way to cheer you up- he said before turning his back on the couple and moving away towards the police tape that fenced the area.

Sherlock watched him for a few moments before shrugging his shoulders and refocusing on John.

-I can see the resemblance, but to be honest John, you certainly could have found better... He’s clearly a kid, I'm sure it didn't take long to make the experience memorable- the detective commented caustic.

John stared at him furiously, his hands clenched into the pockets of his coat, which quivered with the desire to strike that perfect face.

"You stupid asshole” John murmured through his teeth.

The detective did to speak again, but just then Lestrade appeared by his left side, a tired look on his face and a notepad in his right hand.

"So did you find out anything?" Greg asked.

-Oh, I've found a lot of useful information, but nothing about your case.

Right, John?" Sherlock answered without taking his eyes off the doctor.

Greg frowned, turning his gaze now on John now on the detective, noticing the battle-hardened expression of the black-haired man and the doctor's furious look, wondering what might have happened in the few minutes he had left them alone to provoke those reactions.

Could they no longer be able to be unsupervised for more than two minutes?

As if there was a need for further confirmation of his theory, John stepped toward Sherlock a furious glare in his eyes.

-Fuck you! - John said between his teeth before turning his back and walking toward the blue and white cordon that bounded the crime scene.

"What's going on?"asked Greg.

Sherlock ignored his question and followed the man, not at all intending to drop the matter.

-I really don't understand your reaction. If the rumors I heard were true it had to happen sooner or later-

Exasperated John turned again, almost annulling the distance from Sherlock and observing the man’s face from below up, not at all intimidated by the height difference; Greg kept himself a short distance from the two, ready to intervene in case the situation worsened like last time, noting distractedly that the curious glances of most of the agents were now intent on following the scene.

"Listen to me carefully because I'm only going to say it once: what I did or how I chose to live my life while you were around the world doesn't concern you.

Even if I had slept with the entire gay population of London, it’s not your fucking business" John said, speaking through his teeth, making himself more threatening.

-From my point of view it seems that that was your goal...- commented Sherlock cold as usual.

-Guys, why don’t you…-Greg stepped in to try and quell the spirits.

-You stay out of Lestrade- stopped him Sherlock without even spearing him a glance.

-I’m curious... Are there support groups around London for everyone you've slept with over the years? -the detective then asked to John.

A bitter smile appeared on John's lips.

-Maybe you should have asked Tommy, maybe if you hadn't treated him so badly, he'd have given you the address- retorted John.

"You forget that I don't have the right qualifications" he said.

-I wonder why...-

A flash of wrath appeared in Sherlock's icy-blue eyes, leading him to curl his fleshy upper lip and give him an almost wild look, which he managed to hide within a few seconds, causing the usual mask of indifference to fall on his face.

\- I would never compare myself with such ordinary and mundane people... You know how boring normal people can be- Sherlock commented.

John shrugged.

-Yeah right, I forget. We poor mere mortals cannot hope to attract the attention of a crime genius or a Dominatrix-

There was something different about his voice, something that led Greg to tilt his head to intercept his friend's gaze to try to figure out what was going through his head at the time, what memories Sherlock’s words had brought back.

Sherlock, clearly too lost in his own thoughts and jealousy to notice any difference, slightly tilted his head to the right, as if he were considering John's words.

-Mh. You right, I don't think you'd be able to entertain them for long just with yourtricks.

Anyone with superior intelligence would have a foot out the door the moment they orgasmed-commented frosty.

At those words, John blinked before taking the military position and stepping back, his lips pressed against each other.

"Then maybe you should go back to her" he said in a detached voice.

At those words a switch snapped into Sherlock's brain, instantly freeing him from the jealousy that had so far sparked and fueled that conversation: his eyes looked at John, almost saw him now for the first time and noticed how everything from the posture to his gaze, indicated detachment, coldness and found himself sincerely wondering what he had said up to that moment.

-What? – he asked confused.

John cleared his throat before staring at him again with an empty look.

-You just said you'd never waste your time with ordinary, mundane people that clearly, we're not enough for you... Go back to her.

And I'm going to go back to fucking the half of London's gay population that I haven’t slept with yet" John said with a shrug.

Sherlock frowned.

"Didn't you hear a word of what I said to you last night?" Sherlock asked, unable to decide how to behave.

John was moving away from him for the umpteenth time, and Sherlock had no idea what to say to change his mind.

"Did you?" John asked as well.

-You're just making a fool of yourself! - retorted Sherlock.

"You said it yourself: there's nothing I can offer to a person with a superior intellect" John replied in a matter-of-fact voice.

"I wasn't talking about me!" the detective interrupted him, raising his voice.

-So the best solution for you is to go back to her, sparing both of us months of suffering and clearly unnecessary attempts-concluded the blonde without considering the interruption of the other man.

Without adding anything else, John turned to Greg, who reciprocated his gaze with a glance at the same time incredulous and worried.

-Sorry Greg-

John then turned and walked away from the crime scene, crossing the blue and white cordon and walking towards Shaftesbury Avenue.

_____________________________

It was officially over.

No one could say he hadn't tried.

He had done his part several times, he had tried to put the pieces back together so many times that at the end of that fantastic relationship that had brought him back to life after his return from Afghanistan there were only crumbs left.

But now he was tired of fighting... Above all, he didn't see the point.

Especially after Sherlock's words.

The detective would get over it: Sherlock would brood a little because things hadn't gone the way he wanted, but then he would realize that this was the best solution, so he would contact Irene, and everything would work out in the best way.

Immersed in his thoughts, John was completely oblivious to where his feet were taking him, only partially aware that he was still in central London, in the crowd of tourists who besieged those places any day of the week.

Trying to get away from the human tide that distracted him and prevented him from thinking quietly, John snared into Gerrard Street in the heart of Chinatown, where he had come with Sherlock many years ago during the case of the "Blind Banker".

A lifetime ago...

He had to start thinking about temporary accommodation: Sherlock loved that apartment and after all he found it first thanks to Mrs. Hudson, but John could not share the Baker Street apartment with the happy family.

He could ask his sister for hospitality for a few weeks, at least until he found decent accommodation and, in the meantime, he could store his belongings (the ones that didn't fit in his military bag) in Greg's old apartment.

It was only then that he noticed a movement behind him.

He turned and watched the main street, people rushing into shops or leaving the restaurants, tourists taking pictures next to the golden lions and shook his head, feeling paranoid.

At that moment his phone vibrated in the pocket of his coat.

For a moment it was tempting to ignore it certain that it was Sherlock, but on the other hand Mrs. Hudson did not yet know of their quarrel: maybe she had tried to contact Sherlock and having failed had contact him.

Sighing frustrated, John pulled his phone out of his pocket and opened the text, freezing as soon as he read the words.

_Mr. Kong, Lisle Street._

_Shall we have lunch together? IA_

**Tbc...**

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	11. Wonderwall part II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "-Does it really bother you?  
You can't really get over the fact that we slept together- she added, slightly amused.
> 
> -The man I love has a son with the only woman he’s ever loved! Of course it pisses me off!-  
-At least now you can admit your feelings... It’s a shame it took you three years- !

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Because if your love was all I had  
In this life  
Well, that would be enough  
Until the end of time  
So rest your weary heart  
And relax your mind  
'Cause I'm gonna love you girl  
Until the end of time

The matrix created by the streets of Chinatown had the peculiarity of always converging in the heart of the small neighborhood, in front of the red arches and passing by the tourists main attraction and the golden lions that stood on the small square, thus preventing even the most distracted tourists from getting lost.

It wasn't hard for John to find Lisle St. and even less to arrive in front of "Mr. Kong" one of the many Chinese restaurants that crowded the neighborhood and who, according to him, all looked alike.

What was really difficult was finding the courage to enter the restaurant and face his own demons.

As soon as he had read the message the first instinct had been to take a taxi and get away as quickly as possible from there, perhaps wandering the streets of London until his frozen brain had provided him with a possible destination and a place to think peacefully for a few hours.

But John Watson was not a man who run away from adversity and danger, as a matter of fact he was the first to throw himself into the fray, but a part of him kept wondering if anything good will come from this meeting.

What had happened less than half an hour ago with Sherlock had probably marked the end of his relationship with the detective and, if before John would not have stepped back from a confrontation with the woman who had definitely ruined his life, now he thought it was useless.

Perhaps he could have met her for a few minutes, giving her his congratulations for finally succeeding in taking Sherlock away from him and then leaving without listening to what Irene had to say.

That’s it. That was the strategy to follow.

Almost heartened by his decision, John nodded, took a deep breath and walked toward the door of the restaurant.

A small bell rang as soon as he opened the door, announcing his presence to a busy waitress behind the counter who gave him a quick glance before returning to her chores; John looked around and quickly checked the few busy tables (almost all the customers were of Asian origin), looking for the security exits in case he needed it, and finally looking at the table where a woman, sitting alone, had looked up as soon as the bell on top of the door rang.

Shaking his head slightly toward the waitress who was moving in his direction, John approached the table with steady steps, stopping in front of the empty chair, staring at the woman who greeted him with a mischievous smile.

Irene too, like Sherlock, had lost weight since the last time he met her; her black hair had been sacrificed for a platinum blonde nuance that reminded him of Marilyn Monroe and had been cut into a bob that reached her ears; her eyes were hidden by a pair of black sunglasses that Irene didn't seem intent on abandoning at the moment and her lips were painted with the same lipstick John had seen so many years before.

The woman's thin lips slowly turned upwards.

-John... I wasn't sure you'd decide to come in... It was almost painful to watch you in the street as you decided- Irene said greeting him.

The man clasped his abandoned hands along his hips in fists, trying to control the anger towards the woman and himself: could it be so easy for anyone to interpret his every move?

_This is what you should expect when you surround yourself with people with a "higher_ _intellect_" ...

-You should know by now that it's dangerous to show up for a date without knowing what you're up against... The last time, you found yourself wearing a nice waistcoat made of Semtex- Irene commented again.

"You have no idea how much I'd like to punch you right now" John said, trying to control his instincts.

Never in his life and despite his irascible temper, had he felt the desire to hit a woman, but Irene could touch nerves unknown to him making him feel a terrible person.

Irene smiled almost softened by his words.

-Oh John... You'd find yourself with your back on the ground in 30 seconds without even knowing what happened to you.

Now how about you sit down so the waitress will stop looking inquisitively at us and will bring us the menu? -she added in a convivial tone.

Defeated and determined not to cause trouble in the restaurant, John slightly removed the chair from the table and sat down, his eyes still focused on his opponent.

"So, you’re still in London" he said, stating the obvious just to not let the silence fall.

Irene shrugged her shoulders, finally taking off her sunglasses and laying them next to her glass on the table.

-What can I say? A lady never leaves a party without first making sure she has spoken to the most important people" she replied.

"I don't see any lady" John said promptly, without any inflection in his voice.

A fake shocked expression appeared on Irene's face as a hand rose to her chest.

-I'm hurt John. I was convinced that in spite of everything we could become friends, considering that now we play in the same team-

John looked around, slightly disgusted at the idea of being associated even remotely with Irene and, as a result, Moriarty, settling better in his own chair and crossing his arms to his chest like he was still a spoiled child angry with his mother for not getting an ice cream after lunch.

"Why did you want to see me?" he asked her.

Instead of answering, the woman nodded to the nearest waiter and ordered Assam tea, returning to lay her eyes on John’s face as soon as the waiter turned his back on them.

"You really have no idea?" she asked.

Frustrated, John sighed as he leaned forward on the table until he rested both forearms on top of it.

-All of you have this absurd certainty that I can read your mind... I'm sorry to disappoint you, but I haven't developed this ability yet, so could you stop playing games and tell me why I'm here before I decide to get up and leave? -

Irene smiled slightly.

-There must have been something in you that attracted him- Irene said, leading John to stiffen up- I'm here for Hamish: I wanted to make sure things were going well before I leave for good-

-If that was your goal, then why aren't you with him? -

The waiter appeared at their table delaying Irene's response for a few moments during which the woman poured herself a cup of tea and added two teaspoons of sugar, not at all annoyed by the silence that dropped between them and John's piercing gaze fixed on her.

-What can I say... I live a dangerous life.

For most governments I'm officially dead, do you think it's the ideal condition to raise a child? -she asked him, bringing the small cup to her face.

John nodded slowly.

-That's right. I forgot that Sherlock Holmes leads a boring and ordinary life- he pointed out.

"You and I know all too well that despite all his enemies, Sherlock is the only person who can truly protect our son" Irene pointed out.

** _"Our son"_ **

There it is the point of contention, the main problem of the whole thing: that little pronoun who had brought John to that restaurant to drink tea with what he considered his "_ archenemy _".

A misjudgment repeated several times, that had unexpected and permanent consequences.

A small word similar to an electric shock that had gone through every nerve ending of his body.

"Also, Hamish needs his father more than he needs me" added Irene, aware of the hell that was stirring in the doctor's mind but determined for once not to comment.

-Right... What newborn doesn't need its mother? -asked caustic John.

Two deep and dangerous eyes, which in the past had literally brought heads of state and crowned heads to their knees, fixed themselves on his face, clearly undecided whether to punish him for his insolence or not.

-I love my son John.

I wasn't overjoyed when I found out I was pregnant, but then I loved him every single day.

I won’t allow you to express your inane judgments on topics of which you know absolutely nothing- Irene concluded in a cold voice.

-Then stop hiding!

Come out of your hole and be a mother! Hamish needs a family- John said to her slightly exasperated.

In what universe did meeting Irene Adler and having that conversation seemed like a good idea?

Again in possession of her frosty control, Irene gave him a small smile.

-Why do you think I left him in Baker Street? -

"To make my life hell once again" answered the man.

"You're doing it all by yourself, John: I left him there because I knew he was going to be safe and he'd be loved, but it was you who decided to leave" she said.

John frowned.

"What did you expect me to do?" he asked her.

-To grow a pair! -

The doctor looked up to the sky, trying not to be overwhelmed by the desire to yell at the woman to go to hell and get out of that restaurant forgetting every moment of that meeting.

Is it possible that everyone considered what had happened normal and he was the only madman?

"Does it really bother you?" John was asked, looking back at Irene- You can't really get over the fact that we slept together- she added, slightly amused.

-The man I love has a son with the only woman he’s ever loved! Of course it pisses me off! -he snapped; his voice slightly higher.

-At least now you can admit your feelings... It’s a shame it took you three years- Irene said with a shrug, as if the man's problems didn't concern her.

John inhaled deeply a couple of times, determined not to launch an explanation of the emotional process he had faced in the years after The Fall that had led him to admit his feelings for Sherlock, certain that Irene would find them boring, scared of the possibility of seeing Irene laughing in his face after putting his feelings out in the open.

"Besides, you’re wrong" Irene said.

A skeptical expression appeared on John's face.

-Really? -

Irene nodded.

-Sherlock never loved me... He was just fascinated by me- she answered.

-Bullshit! He was fascinated by Moriarty... With you it was...- John said unable to find the words to describe the lightning attraction that had struck Sherlock the moment he laid eyes on the woman.

-An intellectual fuck- helped the woman.

-Not just intellectual- said John, before rubbing his face with both hands- I don't want to talk about this... Not with you-added, the voice slightly distorted by the covered face.

-If not with me, with whom?

I'm the only one who can tell you everything you're dying to know...-said Irene in a smooth voice.

"Stop it! “warned John once again, glaring at her to give more emphasis to his words.

"What did Sherlock tell you?" she asked.

John quickly sought further reasons to end that unseemly conversation: he could tell her that he didn't want to know, that he didn't need any more information, that the mere fact that they had been together annoyed him; but another part of his brain (_the more consistent one_) kept asking questions, spurring him to seize that moment, aware that such an opportunity would never come back.

He needed to know, but at the same time he was disgusted by what he might find out... What could he deduce from that brief analysis?

-Fuck it! - John whispered.

-He told me that the first time it was in Berlin, and that you came on to him- retold John, receiving a nod from Irene. -He also told me that it happened five more times after your first time- concluded the doctor.

"Did he tell you that after the first time it was him that kept coming back to me?" Irene asked.

John nodded.

-I don't know anything else-

Irene added more tea to the now cold one in her cup and was silent for a moment, taking a long sip.

-It all happened in two weeks, always in Germany... There must have been something in the air. We left Berlin the day after the first time, moving to smaller cities.

Personally I was bored and I think he was worried because his plans were progressing slowly: it had been almost two years since his Fall and he expected to have almost completed his task, while he was still halfway.

I think it was a way to clear his head... He could have found worse methods-commented the woman, almost overthinking.

-Unfortunately, I can only agree with you on this point- John agreed.

-I wanted to have sex with him. I have thought about it often, especially immediately after I met him, and I wish I could say that it was just as I had imagined it, but I must confess that it was quite disappointing.

John frowned, not at all convinced.

-Oh, don’t look at me like that Johnny.

Even if you preferred not to say anything, I'm sure Sherlock told you -said the woman, an amused smile on her lips.

"About what?" asked the doctor, as alarm bells rang in his brain.

"That our dear Sherlock has said your name every time he came…" she replied, confirming his fears.

John cleared his throat, trying not to be overwhelmed by embarrassment.

-And that had sex with him disappointing? -

-It certainly wasn't my main goal to make him scream someone else's name, furthermore a man, every time he orgasmed thanks to me.

But I always thought he was really cute.

What made it all disappointing was the fact that no matter how hard I tried, or what tricks I used to get his attention, Sherlock never gave me his full interest, he was never there with me.

It was only transport...-concluded at the end.

"_My body is only the means of transport; what really matters to me is my mind"_

-Why then continue to "experiment"? asked John confused.

Irene shrugged.

-Boredom, loneliness... You pick. We had to pass the time somehow...

If I were to rate his performance I'd say he deserves a 6, and I'm been generous- Irene said before a mischievous smile was painted on her painted lips- But I'm sure he'd give his best with you-

John thought briefly back to when a week earlier, Sherlock had tried to show him all his interest and desire for him, he remembered the chills he had felt when the complete attention of the black-haired man had been on him, the vision of Sherlock kneeling between his legs, but quickly removed his thoughts from those memories aware that Irene would just need a glance to understand what direction his thoughts had taken.

Frustrated, John sighed and reciprocated Irene's gaze.

-Okay. What do you expect me to do now? - he asked her.

He had been polite, he had come to the meeting, letting his curiosity win despite being aware from the very first moment that he would not get anything good from it. He had listened to her as civil as only an English man could do, even though he wanted to yell at her or delete her from the face of the Earth... Yet everything Irene had told him didn't change the reality of things.

Between him and Sherlock it was over, this time for real: he could not get over what had happened with Irene and, curiously, the detective could not tolerate the one night stands John had had in the past three years with other men.

Certainly, he got a lot of nerves...

Irene smiled again; an ironic grin that made her even more unbearable.

"Forget everything and live happily ever after?" Irene replied.

John shook his head slowly, as if he were considering that possibility.

-No... I don't think it works like that-

This time it was the woman’s turn to sigh in frustration.

-Why not? People do it every day.

All your questions have been answered, unless you also want the details, so what else prevents you from returning to your man and live happily with him? -asked Irene in a rational tone.

"And what about you?" asked John, leaning slightly toward her.

\- If I really decide to go back to Baker Street, what are you going to do? Will you forget your son and leave it to me and Sherlock to raise him? –

-That was the plan from the beginning, John...

I do not deny that I will keep an eye on his growth and everything related to him, but I will never interfere with your choices or in his life- Irene answered serious.

-How do I know that in five or ten years you won't change your mind and come back to getting him back, maybe trying to woo Sherlock and destroy my life again? -

**What the hell was he doing?**

Two minutes earlier he had to remind himself that his relationship with Sherlock was over, that this meeting was futile, and now there he was planning for the future to prevent "Maleficent" from interfering again, ruining their lives for the umpteenth time.

He was really going crazy... All because of the people with the higher intellect which he surrounded himself.

"You don't know" said Irene, "But if I know Mycroft at least a little, I know that he has already done everything in his power to prevent Hamish from being taking away from the Holmes family”.

-Ah, well, it's all right then... I can go home with your blessing-John commented sarcastic. - You must have missed a detail though... Sherlock and I are no longer together- he informed her.

Irene sighed, clearly bored, moving the teacup toward the center of the table.

\- I hope you're not talking about that pathetic fight you had before. I have to say, you both disappointed me, arguing in the street like two drunks outside the pub... it was really undignified.

Sherlock finally realized that the stories about your one-night stands weren't just stories, so what?

He already knew you weren't an innocent soul... - Irene commented ironic.

"That's not the point" John readily retorted.

-The point is, you're both bringing up pointless issues to avoid reality: there's no one more compatible than you two.

I am not saying this out of sudden benevolence or kindness of heart, I’m saying this just for Hamish's sake.

I love my son, Dr. Watson and although I might never see him again, I know he will be fine; not because of Mycroft's cameras or Sherlock's huge intellect, but thanks to you- she said without ever taking her eyes off him.

John remained silent, aware that the long speech was not over yet and, above all, because he was unable to put his confused thoughts in order.

-You will be the one who will help Hamish during the tough years of childhood and the even more difficult ones of adolescence; the person who will understand and help him overcome his own fears and nightmares and who will be patient during his whims; if my son will not be an outcast it will be because you will not allow it, helping him to make friends.

For all these things and many more, Hamish will love you deeply, as if you were indeed his father and for this I will be forever grateful-concluded Irene.

John stared at the table top a short distance from himself, silent, clearly unsure of how to respond to the river of words that had run over him.

He needed to think and certainly could not do it with Irene's eyes on his face.

He stood up and looked up at the woman one last time.

"I don't need your gratitude" John said, before turning his back on her and heading for the restaurant door.

_______________________________

After the horrific scene witnessed by half of Scotland Yard's investigation team, Greg Lestrade could only send Sherlock away from the crime scene as the man would not be of any help to them in his agitated state.

Perhaps aware that he was not fully focused on his own work, or perhaps deeming the crime boring, Sherlock was quickly gone, his cell phone in one hand, his fingers moving frantically in the composition of a text.

Again at the starting point, Greg had looked around and stepped aside, leaving the scientific technicians enough space to do their job, trying to silence that little voice in his mind, terribly resembling the baritone of Sherlock, who hoped the technicians wouldn't destroy all the evidence.

After the body had been taken to the Barts morgue, he and Sally had questioned the manager of the diner where the body had been found, about the evening routine before closing time, whether the dumpster had a key or was accessible to everyone and asking him to send the waiters of the evening shift to Scotland Yard to be questioned about anything strange that might have happened last night.

Comparing his notes with Sally's, the two agreed that no one had seen or knew anything, at least for now.

"The only way to find out is to come back tonight and have a talk with Prince Harry's colleagues" Sally said, giving voice to the thought that was spinning in her mind.

Greg nodded, driving the car towards Scotland Yard.

The rest of the day passed by checking and completing old reports before they were sent to the archive, waiting for news from the Barts morgue and toying with the idea of going home and resuming the investigation the next day, but he was aware that he would not be able to relax despite good intentions.

That's why at about eleven o'clock in the evening Greg grabbed his coat, turned off the lights in his office, said goodnight to the few agents still behind their desks and headed for the elevators.

It was only when he found himself behind the stirring wheel that that he understood what it was the right thing to do, that the task of a detective was never over until he could find an explanation to the many small mysteries that accompanied the discovery of a corpse and that, like so many bread crumbs, would lead him to the culprit.

Despite the late hour, the streets of the city center were always crowded with tourists and Londoners who indulged in a "special" evening, but Greg managed to get to Soho without any problems, showing his badge to get free parking in the parking lot two streets away from the crime scene.

In order not to damage the name of NSY too much, he asked a few questions to the parking manager, a middle-aged man completely bald and with a prominent stomach, almost certainly due to alcohol abuse, asking if the previous evening he had seen anything strange or out of the ordinary, receiving a laugh in response.

-We're in Soho, Inspector.

All that would be unusual for her, here is normality- he replied.

Greg nodded.

"The victim's name is Prince Harry, did you know him?" he asked.

-Everyone knew him. He was hustling around Greek Street with three or four other boys.

But if you're looking for something cheaper, you can try Frith Street-

Greg thanked him before heading to the crime scene.

The road was still fenced off, prompting the attention of passers-by, and Greg noticed some daredevils approaching the black and yellow stripes, stretching out their neck to look for some more information than those that immediately caught the eye, but as soon as they saw him enter the fenced area they hurried away like frightened mice.

From his protected position, Greg looked around and checked that everything was still like it was in the morning, making sure no one had climbed over the cordon to snoop around, ruining the work of forensics.

He then walked to Greek Street, his hands in his pockets, trying not to draw attention to himself, despite the nagging feeling that it was obvious where he was headed and what his intentions were.

As soon as he have taken Greek Street, Greg understood that the street was deserted wondering if anyone had informed the boys of his arrival, but then shook his head and reminded himself that he was from the Homicide Squad, continuing to walk as he looked around, taking a look at the shops still open despite the late hour and the pubs that were beginning to serve the last call and just before he decided to head to Frith Street, a couple of boys attracted his attention.

They had just come out of a pub, but it was clear that the only thing that had drawn them there had been the sheltered and warm place to fight the cold evening wind: from that distance to Greg it seemed that both were under twenty-five years old; while one had short brown hair, the other had red, thick hair long enough to making him look like a woman at a first glance, if he had not paid attention to the broad shoulders.

Both wore jeans and a light jacket, clearly easy to open.

Greg approached them and stared at them for a few seconds, trying to gather as much information as possible, cursing Sherlock once again for leaving him alone in this investigation; it was then that he noticed the great age difference between the two boys: while the red-haired boy was around twenty-five years old, the brown-haired boy was definitely eight years younger.

Was there anyone forcing him into prostitution? Or was the red-haired man his pimp taking part in his salary?

Without giving a glance to the older man, Greg looked at the young man and smiled; as if he had just received a coded message, the red-haired boy walked away from the younger one, walking to the corner of the street, an eye on them and another looking for possible customers.

"Hey" Greg greeted him.

The boy nodded.

"Can I help you?" he asked, a slight bored tone in his voice that reminded him of Sherlock and made him smile.

_"At least so far he hasn't started yelling at me"_

-Maybe... Aren't you a little young to be out at this late hour?" Greg asked.

-Who are you? My father? -answered the slightly annoyed boy.

Greg shook his head slightly.

-Obviously not-

The young man's eyes quickly moved across his face, observing every little imperfection of his face, every wrinkle, and stared for a few moments at his brown eyes.

"I like your hair" he said.

The detective arched an eyebrow.

It wasn't the first time he'd heard it, even Mycroft loved his hairs, but Greg couldn't understand their appeal.

-Mh. Thank you, I guess…-Greg said anyway.

"They give you a George Clooney look" the boy said.

A bigger smile curved Greg’s lip.

-Right... Just to be clear: is this your way of seducing me? -Greg asked amusedly.

The other shook his head.

-I don't need it. I have everything you've been looking for-

-Really? -

"Don't you have a car?" the boy asked.

Greg shook his head, happy to have hidden his car in the parking lot not far away.

"Yes, but it's a little flashy and I thought I'd never be able to find parking in central London, so...-said leaving the sentence in half.

The boy stared at him for a few moments, looking for another answer in his face.

-Mh... Okay, it doesn't matter.

I know where we can go" he said, walking the next moment down the sidewalk in the opposite direction to which his "friend" was, expecting Greg to follow him.

The detective approached him and for a few minutes they walked in silence, until they arrived in a narrow and smelly alley; the boy held his back against a wall and stared at him.

-So... What do you like? -he asked, in a professional tone.

-What do I... Oh, a lot of things: football, Doc... -started Greg.

"I meant about sex" the boy said.

-Oh...-

Why was he looking and acting like an idiot? Was that boy who got him in trouble?

"Is this your first time with a professional?" asked the other, smiling slightly.

Greg shook his head: although he had always had a decent luck with men and women, there had been a few occasions in his youth when he had to resort to the help of professionals, especially during the confused period of adolescence, when he could not tell if he was more attracted by his rugby teammates or cheerleaders.

-No, I wouldn't say... It’s just that so much time has passed since than that I think I've lost my charm" Greg joked with a small smile.

The boy smiled as well, before moving off the wall and staring at him with a predatory look.

-So, how does it work? Are you going to let me give you a blow job and then show me your badge or do you want to show it now to get free treatment? -he asked Greg with a cold voice.

Greg stiffened, suddenly on alert; the charm and the ironic smile had disappeared from the boy's face suddenly, giving way to a serious and cold mask.

-I don't understand...-he tried.

-The holster…- the boy simply said.

Greg looked at his coat and noticed that, perfectly visible for the entire time of their conversation, the arm holster of his gun had peeped out of his coat.

Sighing frustrated he rubbed his face with one hand and berated himself for such a trivial mistake.

_Sherlock would have every right to call me an idiot this time..._

He looked up at the boy and stared at him for a few seconds, deciding to put his cards on the table.

"Nice to meet you young man" Greg said, hinting at a friendly smile- Ok, I'd better clarify a few things: I'm not going to hurt you nor have sex with you, I just need to ask you a few questions- he added in full honesty.

The boy frowned, clearly unconvinced.

-About what? -

"When was the last time you had a decent meal?" he asked.

That teenage boy was a bunch of skin and bones held together by his own clothes, and for a moment Greg remembered the first encounter he had with Sherlock: same thinness, same reticence, fortunately in this case he did not have to deal with a young man who was high on cocaine, but this did not rule out that he needed his help.

-Why’s that? Who the hell are you? The neighborhood policeman? -asked the boy annoyed.

"Can you just answer my question?" asked Greg.

The teenager sighed.

-What day is today? -

Greg rolled his eyes and approached him.

-Alright, I get it. Let’s go" he said.

-What? I didn't do anything wrong! -retorted the boy, preparing to escape.

"That's debatable" Greg said.

-I'm 16! If I decide to fuck strangers for money, it's my choice" he said once again with that cold, detached voice.

-A very sensible choice. Anyway, I just wanted to buy you something to eat.

You look like you're going to faint any minute- Greg said.

Clearly surprised, the boy frowned.

-Why? -

"Do you always ask the same questions?" Greg asked. -It's late, it's freezing, and I have a feeling that you have a long night ahead of you.

So why not face it with full stomach?

Do that sound like good reasons to you? -Greg asked slightly annoyed to have to explain even that little act of kindness.

The young man seemed to relax slightly but continued to look at him like a wounded animal waiting for the fatal blow.

-Will you pay? -

Greg sighed.

"I'm the one who offered it, didn't I?" he said.

The boy shrugged.

-Then it's okay... – he finally granted.

"What's your name?" Greg asked, realizing that it had now become a necessary information.

"What name do you prefer?" he was asked.

-Your real one? -

-Daniel- finally answered the boy.

Greg smiled and nodded.

-All right. I'm Greg. And now let's get something to eat-

They walked out of the alley and walked again along Frith Street in silence until they reached one of the few premises still open at that time.

They sat at one of the tables near the window and Greg left Daniel order, listening to him asking for a coffee, a sandwich with tomatoes and ham, a slice of cake and, after seeing them on the display behind their waiter, a couple of cookies with chocolate chips, before Greg ordered a coffee and a sandwich.

"You have to work on your pickup lines" Daniel said, breaking the silence as soon as the waiter walked away.

Greg raised an eyebrow.

"What are you talking about?" he asked slightly curious.

"I knew right away that you weren't like the others, even before I noticed the holster" Daniel confessed.

"Are you telling me it's clearly written on my face that I'm a cop?" asked Greg.

Daniel shook his head.

-No, but usually my clients are in a hurry to conclude, they don't want to take the risk of being seen by someone they know; you, however tense, were in no hurry... That's why I let you talk: I was testing my theory- Daniel said then looking up at the waiter who arranged in front of him the slice of cake and the cookies and poured the coffee into both cups.

Greg took a few moments to pour the sugar into his drink, before bringing his eyes back to his interlocutor.

"How come a fine analyst of the human soul is reduced to hustling?" he asked, trying not to sound too sarcastic.

The boy shrugged.

"What can I say?" Daniel said in between bites. "Everyone needs money" he added.

-Money for what? Drugs? -

Daniel shook his head.

-Of course not! Food, mainly.

There was a time when things were going so well that I could even afford some new clothes from the second-hand shops, but now everyone wants to try the Asian experience... As if there was something different-the boy commented caustic.

"Where are you from?" asked Greg, before taking a long sip from his own cup.

The waiter returned to their table with the rest of their orders and for a few moments Daniel didn’t answer his question, too focused on his own food.

It wasn't the first time Greg had been in front of young people in need of help, in fact in his work he encountered too many, but there was something about that boy that for some reason brought back to his mind the first encounters with Sherlock, provoking in him an instinct to unexpected protection.

"I'm a citizen of the world" Daniel said, after brushing off half of his sandwich and wrapping the other half in a napkin.

"And I guess your parents don't know anything about your activities... - commented Greg without saying a word on the automatic action done by the boy.

-Who knows? As far as I know they may have walked past me on the street while I was "busy" in my work- Daniel merely commented carelessly.

Greg's face frowned.

"I'm sorry" he said sincere.

A wry smile curved Daniel's thin lips.

-I didn't know it was your fault. So what did you want to know? -he asked before taking a piece from the first cookie and bringing it to his mouth.

Greg recovered from his gloomy thoughts and nodded.

"Did you heard about the body found yesterday?" he asked.

-The dead man in the bin? Sure... They're all looking over their shoulder for what happened to Harry- Daniel commented before taking a sip from his own cup.

-Did you know him? -

"We weren't friends, if that's what you’re asking, but for a while we worked the same streets" he said.

"What can you tell me about him?" asked Greg, taking his notepad from his raincoat pocket and opening it on the tabletop.

-He was a presumptuous asshole! Convinced to be the best fuck in all of London... And he didn't think twice before getting paid for his services" Daniel said.

Greg frowned, looking confused.

-Isn't that what you all do? -

-Of course, but I would never ask for two hundred pounds for a quickie in an alley-precise Daniel.

Greg nodded slowly, agreeing with Daniel.

-Okay, I see what you mean. And the customers agreed to pay so much money? - Greg asked curious.

Daniel shrugged.

-Mh... Harry may have been an asshole, but he certainly had a few tricks up his sleeve...-commented the boy.

-What do you mean? -

"I mean, if you had any peculiar interest, then Harry was the person you had to turn to" Daniel simply replied.

Greg stared at him, aware that there was much hidden behind that simple sentence.

"Are you going to tell me or not?" he asked stern.

Daniel drank from his cup one more time before smiling at Greg.

-Why would I? Usually information like this comes at a price- he said in a lower voice.

"I have no intention of paying you, it's enough that I won't take you in for attempted solicitation of a public official" Greg replied promptly.

-Oh, yes please, take me to the precinct, so I say hello to all your colleagues... If you only knew how many of them come by during their work hours- Daniel commented vicious, a harsh look in the eyes.

Greg returned his gaze, unsure whether to believe his insinuations or not, but once again deciding to drop the argument.

"Anyway, I've already paid for dinner" he said.

"I didn't ask you to" Daniel replied quickly.

-You're an ungrateful bastard, you know? -

Daniel sighed.

-It’s one of my many appeals, what are you going to do about it? -

Greg took two fingers to the corners of his eyes, pressing hard for a few seconds, trying to resist the desire to yell at the cheeky bastard.

-Okay. I'm not going to pay for your information, but it would mean a lot to me if you told me everything you know... Especially if you're aware of something that can help me solve this case - Greg said, his eyes again on the boy’s face - Aren't you afraid that this guy might hurt any of you guys? -he added then.

Daniel shook his head.

-No, not much-

"Okay, do you think any of his clients could have killed him?" -Greg asked then, trying not to get frustrated.

-It could be... After all, we all know the risks of the business-

Greg frowned, thinking for a moment about the state in which the body had been found that morning.

-Has he ever been hurt? -

-Once or twice- Daniel answered.

"And what about you?" Greg asked then, taking Daniel and himself by surprise.

-Why are you asking? -

"Call it curiosity" Greg replied, his gaze always fixed on the boy's face.

-Once or twice- Daniel repeated, the hint of a smile on his lips.

Greg nodded slowly, aware that he would not be able to know anything more.

"Now it's my turn" Daniel said suddenly.

Greg rose one eyebrow, clearly confused.

\- It's my turn to play 20 Questions-Daniel added, an almost childish tone in his voice.

"Okay, what do you want to know?" conceded Greg after a few moments of hesitation.

"Have you always wanted to be a cop?" the boy began.

Greg sneered and shook his head.

-No, of course not.

I wanted to be in a punk rock band, like the Sex Pistols- he confessed, remembering that naive childhood dream.

\- Cool. Although I don't have the faintest idea who they are, but it still sounds cool... Then what happened? -he asked.

"How can you not know the Sex Pistols?" asked Greg almost shocked.

-Because I not a war relics like you?" teased Daniel in an ironic tone.

-I can clearly see your charm now... Anyway, I met a girl and her father didn't want her to date a criminal like me, so I cleaned up and enrolled in the Police Academy-

The clashes with Mr. O'Neill were still in his memory as if they had happened the day before and not thirty years earlier; every time he knocked on their door, his father-in-law did not fail to point out his disapproval with his hair, his tight pants or the chains he used instead of the belt.

Only good education, respect for people older than him and love he felt for his daughter had prevented Greg from sending him to hell.

-A girl? Since when do straight guys go around looking for a quickie with another man? - Daniel asked curious.

_Since the dawn of Time? _Greg thought, going back with his mind to those college classmates who were happy with some "action" as long as their girlfriend didn't know.

"I'm bisexual" Greg said, "My wife knew that and had no problems with it"

"So she wouldn't have a problem knowing you're here with me?" asked the boy mischievously.

Greg shrugged.

"I don’t think so, since we're not together anymore" he said.

-Don't tell me she caught you having sex with another man-

The detective shook his head.

-No, has a matter of fact she fell in love with a colleague and we got divorced.

The policeman's life is hard" he said.

He had never blamed his wife for cheating on him: when Sherlock pointed it out to him, he initially did not want to believe it, when he then confronted his reality, his first thought was to apologize.

For not being present enough, for giving greater importance to Sherlock and his problems without realizing that his wife, the woman with whom he had chosen to spend the rest of his life, had worries that he had never noticed.

"So maybe after dinner we can pick up from where we left" Daniel said, referring to their previous talk.

Greg smiled and shook his head.

-Thank you, but no thanks.

I don't think my fiancé would be happy-

-He doesn’t have to know... – Daniel teased him.

Greg let out an ironic laugh.

-Trust me. He knows everything.

So thank you again for the kind offer, but even if I was interested, I am forced to say no.

But if you really want to do something nice for me, how about giving me that information? -Greg tried.

Daniel stared at him for a long moment in silence, before nodding.

-Maybe next time-

"Who said there will be next time?" asked the detective, an eyebrow raised in surprise.

-I do.

Thank you for dinner, but I have to get back to work- Daniel said as he stood up and tucked half of the sandwich and of the cookies, which was also wrapped in multiple napkins, in the pockets of his jacket.

Greg looked for a way to hold him back, considering once again the possibility of dragging him to the station.

"Wait!" he said, quickly scribbling his mobile number on a blank sheet of his notepad, then tearing it up and giving it to the boy.

-This is my number.

Call me if you need anything or if there are any changes, okay? - Greg said meeting Daniel’s uncertain gaze.

"Have you become my guardian angel?" asked the other man with that usual swaggering air with which he had tempted him.

-Stop being a jerk.

Take my number and promise me that if you need anything, you'll call me- repeated Greg more firmly.

Daniel sighed dryly before stretching out a hand toward his and taking the paper, folding it up and tucking it into one of his pockets.

-Happy now?

See you around Greg-Daniel greeted him before turning his back on him and getting out of the diner.

The detective watched him from the window until he was too far away among the bright night lights and when his gaze turned again on the tabletop, Greg told himself that the last thing he needed was to repeat the experience he had with Sherlock.

If Daniel would call him, he would meet him to get that information on the case, otherwise he would continue his investigation independently from the boy.

__________________________________

_"Where are you? –SH"_

_"Tell me where you are. We need to talk. –SH"_

_"I'm at home. Come now. –SH"_

_"Even Hamish is looking around in the living room searching for you... He knows something's wrong._

_When will you come home? –SH"_

_"I was jealous. –SH"_

_"Now I understand how you felt about Irene. –SH"_

_"I don't want to think or imagine you with someone else... I don't care about other men. –SH"_

_"You are mine. I don't need anyone else. –SH"_

_"Only you. –SH"_

_"I'm at Harry's. I'm going to sleep here tonight... If you've already closed the case, we can take Hamish to the Zoo tomorrow. –JW"_

_"Lestrade took the case from me. The Zoo is perfect. –SH"_

_"Okay. See you tomorrow at the entrance to Regent's Park around 10:00? –JW"_

_"Perfect. Good night John –SH"_

_"Goodnight Sherlock –JW"_

____________________

Lying on his sister's couch, John re-read the conversation he had with Sherlock until a few minutes before, then left his phone on the tea table and stared without seeing the ceiling wrapped in darkness.

It had been an eventful day... Damn it had been weeks since his life changed its perspective at any moment without the smallest clue to prepare him for the events that were about to happen.

A moment earlier he was certain that his relationship with Sherlock could not evolve beyond their well-established friendship, the next day his desires seemed to be one step away from being fulfilled and he met his future mother-in-law, only to see everything crumbling down again with Hamish's arrival and then when it seemed that they had finally come to a compromise, that a new beginning for their couple was possible, Sherlock had a jealous fit.

He was ready to leave it all behind, he really was...

But.

But he couldn't stop thinking about what Irene had told him.

Despite his hatred for the woman, Irene seemed to have an unexpected confidence, if what she had said was the truth and not yet another attempt to get what she wanted.

She trusted him to the point of entrusting him with the education and growth of her own son, convinced also that John would be a moral example for the child more than his own father and would be able to help him in the real-life problems that Hamish would have growing up.

Obviously, John and Sherlock could not stay together just for Hamish's sake, it was a terrible foundation for a relationship, but on the other hand, in his messages the detective had acknowledged his mistake and admitted that what had driven him to behave in that absurd way had been jealousy...

Was it the first time Sherlock Holmes had come to terms with jealousy?

Sherlock had always been possessive of him, even when they were just friends and he thought John was straight, but now that he knew of his homosexuality John could clearly see that jealousy in his eyes whenever Jack was in their apartment.

But John had never wanted anyone but Sherlock; all the others were just a pale imitation unable to entice his attention for more than a couple of hours.

Is it possible that such an obvious detail had escaped the brightest and smartest man John had ever met?

John covered his eyes with one arm, taking a deep breath, agreeing with himself that a decision was necessary and that this time it had to be the final one.

Would he go to the appointment tomorrow with the knowledge that that was their swan song, or with a confident look in his eyes towards the future that awaited them?

__________________________________

For one evening, Mycroft Holmes had decided to devote a couple of hours to himself and his partner.

It had been a long week, compounded by the problems he and Greg had had three weeks ago and that had not completely abandoned him and Mycroft needed to go home, spend some time with Gregory and make sure things were back to normal, to make sure that the mysterious problem that had driven them away did not yet hover like a specter between them.

There were still some issues that required his attention or his signature, but they were not urgent problems, so he had placed in his briefcase the laptop and the most urgent reports, had turned off the little light on the desk and had approached the hanger to retrieve his coat and umbrella, when he heard a slight blow on the door.

The next moment Anthea appeared on the threshold, a file neatly placed under her arm.

"Sir there is something that requires your attention" she said, and then entered the office, the door closing behind her in an automatic, silent gesture.

"Is it private matters or state affairs?" asked Mycroft, an arm already tucked into his coat.

-Personal matters- the woman promptly answered, placing the file on the desk.

Mycroft looked up: what else had John and Sherlock been up to?

"Then I'm taking it with me, I'm going to read it in the car" he said, turning to Anthea waiting to receive the vanilla folder.

Anthea nodded her head and handed him the small folder.

-As you prefer, Sir. Good evening Sir- she greeted him before turning her back on him and leaving the office.

Mycroft finished getting ready and drove to the underground car park where Ken, his personal driver for seventeen years, waited for him with the car door already open; Mycroft gave a slight nod to his employee's salute and got into the car before settling comfortably in the car for the short trip.

For a few moments he closed his eyes, letting himself go against the shoulder pad of the seat, relaxing the pulled and sore muscles, already anticipating the massage that Gregory would offer to loosen the muscles of his back and neck, before reopening his eyes and staring at the file on his lap.

Mycroft opened the folder ready to quickly examining the contents before he got home, ready for his brother's umpteenth nonsense, but as he set his eyes on the first photo he stiffen up: in front of his eyes Greg, his Gregory was standing on the corner of a street busy talking to a teenage boy, clearly an hustler.

The expression on Gregory's face was awkward, hesitant, as if he were afraid to say the wrong thing, but in the next photo Gregory and the boy walked away together, exiting six minutes later from an alley.

The following photos showed them sitting at a restaurant table engrossed in a conversation that led Greg to frown in confusion or smile clearly amused, and Mycroft wondered what the topic of discussion was cursing the right to privacy that prevented him from installing microphones in every London restaurant or shop.

In the last photo the boy was standing, ready to return to his "work" and staring at Greg with an uncertain look as the detective's hand stretched towards him, a piece of paper between his fingers.

Gregory gave him his number.

Letting his head go against the back of the seat, Mycroft tried to control the frantic beats of his heart...

Greg, his Gregory, had cheated on him.

He had lied to him, telling him that things had settled down between them, that he had nothing to worry about their relationship, then turn to that hustler for his sexual needs.

Was he really so dissatisfied that he had to resort to such low-infused methods?

His mind re-enacted the image of his "rival" making him notice once again his youth, his skinny physique, the delicate face as if he were a porcelain doll.

Those thoughts hurt Mycroft even more: looking for a replacement, Gregory had not sought someone who was up to his standard but had wanted someone completely different.

Younger.

More compliant.

Clearly more experienced despite his young age.

The limousine stopped and giving a quick glance at the view outside the window, Mycroft saw the silhouette of their house: the lights in the living room were on, confirming Gregory's presence inside.

With automatic gestures, the man closed the file and inserted it into his briefcase, looking for a logical solution to his problem.

Should he go inside and face Gregory right away?

Or did he have to wait, gather more information then inform him that Mycroft was aware of his betrayal and put an end to their relationship?

That was definitely the best idea.

With an elegant gesture Mycroft opened the car door and went out into the street, walking slowly to the front door.

He had just closed the front door behind him, when the noise of Gregory's footsteps announced moments before that the man was coming to the entry to greet him.

As soon as he saw him, a bright smile appeared on Greg's face.

-Hey! I didn't expect you at home so soon...- he said going to meet him.

An hour earlier he would have easily believed that that smile expressed all the love that Gregory felt towards him, but now?

Could he still say the same thing after what he saw?

Mycroft gave him a small and awkward smile and took off his coat and shoes, placing them neatly at the entrance alongside the briefcase.

"I had the chance to postpone a few meetings until tomorrow" he said, turning to Gregory.

The detective did not even give him time to finish the sentence, but he latched his arm around his shoulders and drew him closer to himself laying his lips against Mycroft’s, caressing them several times with infinite sweetness.

-All right. You have no idea how happy I am to see you... You are a vision for my tired eyes- Greg said once their kiss was over, taking his companion's hand and guiding him to the living room.

Mycroft allowed himself to be guided to the living room trying not to give much importance to the detective's words and to see them for what they really were: the attempts of a cheater to distract the partner's attention from their betrayals.

"Busy day?" he asked when they settled down on the couch.

As Greg always did, he had sat him down and then lay on the couch on his back, his head on Mycroft’s knees, a hand clenched in that of the British official.

-I'm exhausted! This morning we found a body in a trash can, a young boy hustling around Soho, and I had the unfortunate idea of bringing in Sherlock and John.

As soon as they arrived at the crime scene to examine the body they started arguing furiously" he recalled.

"Once again because of Irene?" asked Mycroft, listening carelessly.

Greg shook his head on his knees.

-The guy who found the body had sex with John while your brother was away and Sherlock was dying with jealousy... They had a big fight until John finally decided to end things between them.

Once and for all- Greg concluded.

Mycroft sighed in frustration.

"Sometimes they act like children" he said.

Right now he had more serious worries than his brother's heart problems.

-Yes, you are right. After John left, Sherlock became practically useless, so I had to spend the day and much of the evening looking for clues...As I said, a hellish day- said again Greg.

** _He forgot to mention his dinner date..._ **

"What about you? How was your day?" asked Greg, slowly stroking Mycroft’s arm.

-Long. Tomorrow will be even longer...-simply said the other man.

Greg sat up without untangling their fingers and gave him a mischievous smile.

-Are you sure you can't give me five minutes? I'm sure I know the right methods to make you relax- he said, raising his head a little bit to stroke Mycroft’s neck with the tip of his nose.

Mycroft closed his eyes to that gentle touch, while his treacherous body shivered when Gregory's lips rested lightly on his jaw, but what until half an hour earlier had been the primary need that had driven him to ending his work early, now seemed something dirty, compromising, which led him to move his face away from his companion's lips.

"I'd love to, but I still have to go over some files and make a couple of phone calls before I come to bed" Mycroft said serious.

Greg frowned slightly.

"Is everything all right?" he asked a little worried.

Mycroft endeavored to smile at him and stroked his short hair, still slightly damp after the shower.

-Of course Gregory... It's just that sometimes I wish I had a forty-eight hours day for all the things I have to take care of- he said, trying to reassure him.

The detective flashed a smile and gave him a quick kiss on his lips.

-Okay. As sad as it may be, I understand: England needs to be governed and no one does it better than you" he said as he stood up.

"Don't let the Queen hear you" Mycroft retorted, standing up as well. "Don't wait up for me" he added.

-Yes, master...-replied Greg with a lower and clearly mischievous voice. -And don't you fall asleep in your armchair as usual, you know it's terrible for your back-

Mycroft nodded before heading to the entrance hall to retrieve his briefcase.

If before he was determined to end his relationship with Gregory without granting him any right to reply, Mycroft had now realized that he was not ready to give up his partner without a fight.

No one had adapted to him and his hectic life as easily and without complaints as Gregory had done, becoming in a short time indispensable.

Greg had made a mistake, a mistake that Mycroft would not fail to make him regret, but he was not ready to step aside and leave the field open to his opponent.

It should never be said that a Holmes leaves the battlefield without first unleashing all his weapons and having put in place all possible and imaginable strategic plans.

A battle was about to begin and Mycroft Holmes needed all the information he could get about his rival.

________________________________

As promised, when John arrived at 10:30 at the entrance to London Zoo's in Regent's Park, Sherlock was already there waiting for him, on time as few times before.

That morning, after leaving Harry's apartment, the doctor had phoned Mrs. Hudson to have the certainty that Sherlock had already left, so that he could return to Baker Street to wear a new pair of jeans, combined with a clean shirt and sweater.

Sure, he wasn't as elegant as he had been two evenings before, but for a visit to the Zoo with an infant and Sherlock was definitely the ideal outfit.

When he finally managed to see the long silhouette of the detective in the crowd of children, nannies, parents and tourists who crowded the main entrance of the Zoo a smile automatically stretched out John’s lips.

Once again Hamish was placed in the baby carrier against his father's chest, but this time his face was facing outwards so as not to miss anything that was going on around him; the child wore a blue coat that made him look plump and clumsy, his black hair was covered with a midnight blue wool hat and his feet were covered with a pair of black baby sneakers.

Always smiling, John approached the duo and felt his heart miss a beat when the child, seeing him arrive, began to shake his hands.

-Hey Misha! Look how smart you are... You're going to make your dad look bad- John said with a smile in his voice, stroking Hamish’s hands.

Once again, Hamish pointed his ice eyes at him, fascinated by the difference in the timbre of his voice, and stretched out his arms to get in his arms; leaning slightly, John kissed both hands and then approached the baby's face to lay one last kiss on the tip of the baby cold nose, receiving another laugh in return.

Still smiling, John looked up at Sherlock, meeting the same eyes that had just looked at him from a much younger face: while Hamish's gaze had been of sheer happiness, Sherlock's gaze was more watchful, clearly uncertain whether to show his feelings or not.

\- Sherlock …- John greeted him slightly embarrassed.

Sherlock nodded to him in return.

-I'm glad you came-

John frowned slightly at those words, before smiling again.

-I'm the one who suggested it, didn't I?

In fact, we’d better get in before it gets too full of kids-John commented ironic.

Sherlock smiled in return and stood next to him, as they made their way to the ticket office.

If there was one thing John hadn't accounted for when he suggested that trip, it was Sherlock's secret passion for animals; in all the years of their friendship there had been nothing that could make him guess that the detective had a real love for animals, insects and reptiles included of course.

As soon as they walked through the entrance of the Zoo, John found himself following the detective once again, vaguely wondering where they were going until they found themselves in front of the glass cages that constituted the "Gorilla Kingdom".

For fifteen minutes Sherlock settled down by the stained-glass windows, explaining to Hamish the main characteristics of the gorillas, everything he knew about their habits, careless of the crowd around him who tried to observe the animals while throwing at him curious glances hearing Sherlock speak so eloquently to such a small child.

After the gorillas, it was the monkeys and predatory birds turn, followed by a quick visit to the aquarium.

For two hours John followed Sherlock and Hamish around the Zoo, listening to the detective's detailed explanations and laughing several times as a child for the animal imitations Sherlock did with the purpose of making Hamish laugh.

Several times their eyes met and, even without a word, the two men knew that the other one was happy and that nothing would ruin that day.

"John, we absolutely have to create a colony of penguins in our apartment" Sherlock told him after spending ten minutes staring at them in their tub.

-Sherlock, we can't create a penguin colony in a London apartment... We'd just make them suffer- John retorted with an amused smile on his lips.

-They don’t need a lot of space: we can turn the apartment C into a huge tub full of ice and feed them with fresh fish every day- Sherlock proposed again.

"I don't think Mrs. Hudson would be in favor of the idea" the blond man pointed out.

Sherlock grunted and turned away from John.

"You never make me do anything fun" said sounding like a six-year-old boy.

John held back an amused chuckle and continued to follow him.

After visiting the "Butterfly Paradise" they took a break at the nearest kiosk to feed Hamish; John took the baby in his arms and took out the necessary from the navy-blue bag, allowing Sherlock to line up at the checkout to order two coffees.

Clearly hungry, Hamish ravenously sucked from his bottle without ever turning his gaze away from John's face as if he were afraid to see him suddenly disappear if only he had turned his attention elsewhere for a few moments.

"Did you miss me Misha?" John asked, stroking his plump cheek with a finger.

-Don’t worry, I'm here now-

A shadow in front of him led John to look up again and come face to face with Sherlock, two cups of coffee in his hands and, after the first moment of surprise, John smiled at him.

"Luckily your son still has a healthy appetite" he said before looking back at Hamish.

-Mh…I don't think it's a fundamental genetic character - Sherlock simply retorted, placing a cup next to the doctor.

"Are you having fun?" asked John before drinking a sip of his own coffee.

-I have to admit, it's an instructive experience. Each time I learn something different and it might even come in handy with my work-commented the black-haired man.

-You should sign up for their foundation, so every month you would receive their news and you would be among the first to know about special events...-

-No, it's the kind of thing I'd gladly leave for Mycroft.

I'm sure I'd end up bored to death-

John smiled and nodded slowly; his gaze fixed again on the detective's face.

Despite the mask of indifference that Sherlock habitually wore, John could clearly see the various emotions that animated the detective: the joy of being the three of them together, the uncertainty of not knowing, for the first time, how to behave in John’s presence, the fear that this was only a special occasion due to Hamish's presence.

Did Sherlock really believed that John would have shunned him for the rest of their life if the child hadn't been there?

Settling Hamish against his shoulder, John stretched out his arm and grabbed the detective's hand, tangling their fingers.

Taken by surprise by that unexpected gesture, Sherlock turned his head slightly towards him and met his ocean-blue eyes a few moments, heartened by the smile that bent John's lips.

"So, what's our next goal?" the doctor asked him.

-Komodo Dragons.

They are as close as there is to the real dragons and I am sure Hamish will appreciate them- Sherlock said.

"Which child hasn’t dreamed of meeting a real dragon?" commented John, approving his choice.

Ten minutes later Hamish was again secured against Sherlock's chest in the baby carrier and the two men resumed their exploration of the Zoo.

By the time Sherlock finally felt fully satisfied and ready to return home, it was late afternoon.

It was only when the two men walked together to Baker Street that Sherlock was again attacked by doubts: what would happen now?

Would John say goodbye to him at the front door and then walk to the subway?

Or would he go up to the apartment to take the rest of his clothes and then go back to Harry?

No.

He had to find a way to keep John at Baker Street... At least for a few more hours.

"Would you like a cup of tea?" Sherlock asked, even if he could hardly recognize his voice.

John nodded and pulled his keys out of his coat pocket, opening the front door and stepping aside to let the detective in.

On the short journey from the Zoo to Baker Street, Hamish had fallen asleep, his head dashed by the wool hat and once they entered their apartment, John helped Sherlock to free the baby from the baby carrier, coat and shoes and with extreme caution took him to the detective's room where the little boy's cot was.

"He’s still asleep" said John, returning to the living room.

"Good" said Sherlock, who, meanwhile, had stripped off his scarf, coat and shoes.

"It's amazing how he could have gotten so tired when his main activities all day were eating and watching the animals from the baby carrier" John said.

-Processing information is a tiring procedure-replied serious the detective.

John smiled slightly and followed Sherlock with his gaze as he entered the kitchen.

-I’ll have to believe you-

"Are you sure you have time for tea before you leave?" asked Sherlock, the kettle in one hand.

At those words John frowned.

-Leave? Where should I go? Don't tell me we're out of milk again.-the doctor said.

This time it was Sherlock’s turn to frown, clearly confused: John was staying?

-Oh... I thought you'd sleep at Harry's today, too- he said.

"And why should I?" asked John, taking a couple of steps toward the kitchen.

"Well, if I remember your words from yesterday morning, it was over between us, so I assumed that..." the detective explained.

-Sherlock... Do you really think that if it was all over between us, I would have come to the Zoo with you and Misha? -John asked him trying to make him realize his mistake.

So the tension, the fear that had accompanied him all day long had been unmotivated... John had no intention of leaving him.

-Oh...-

John smiled and nodded slowly.

-Yeah-

"So you're back? For good?" asked Sherlock once again in need of yet another assurance.

"Of course I'm back!" John promptly retorted before taking a deep breath. "Sherlock, do you remember what I told you that morning before everything went to hell?" he asked.

Sherlock nodded: he had not forgotten anything about the few hours of pure happiness he had experienced with John before Hamish's arrival.

-That we were going to fight and you'd leave slamming the door... Oh! -Sherlock recalled, leaving the sentence in half when he understood what John wanted to make him understand.

John smiled and nodded once again.

"Yeah…I needed time to think and I had the "luck" to meet someone who was able to help me get the whole thing sorted out" he said, staring intently at Sherlock icy-blue eyes to make him understand what he had been silent about.

**Irene.**

Once again, the woman had meddled in their private matters, even going so far as to bypass him and meet John directly, thus risking ruining everything.

-Ah... And how is she? -Sherlock asked him shyly.

John shrugged as he entered the kitchen and stopped by the table.

-Well, I guess. You know I've always been biased with her- he admitted.

Sherlock let a slightly amused smile curve his perfectly drawn lips.

"I wonder why... - he commented ironic.

-Yeah, me too...- retorted John with the same wry smile on his face- She was annoyed that things were not going as she wished; but I think she's now over it-John added.

"What did she want?" asked the other man.

-Who cares what she wants? She has no say in this matter- John replied firmly.

Sherlock nodded and then raised the kettle again.

-Tea? -

John nodded and watched Sherlock turn his back on him to begin the preparation of the drink, although both were aware that the detective was totally unable to prepare a tea even remotely drinkable.

That small insignificant gesture made by Sherlock, a man who refused to take his cell phone even when it was in his jacket pocket, made John understand how frightened the man was at the idea of seeing their relationship end, by the prospect of seeing John leave, or being separated from him, the only person able to tolerate understand and love him, even for just one night.

How was it possible for such a brilliant and exceptional man to fall apart after only a night spent separated?

Sherlock was the most spectacular person he had ever met, while John was ordinary, the most common person you could imagine to meet.

Nonetheless, Sherlock had decided that John Watson was the person without whom he was unable to function normally, the missing piece of his soul and after spending three years away, now he seemed unable to be without him even for one night.

How could he not notice so much devotion before?

Why did he allow jealousy and other stupid problems to stand between them?

Fuck, they were Sherlock Holmes and John Watson!

They had survived murderous taxi drivers, ordinary criminals and professional psychopaths who had the sole purpose of separating them or hurting them... Yet, they had let small, easily solvable problems like those that had plagued them so far intrude on their relationship, seriously risking separating them.

Without even realizing it, John took the few steps that separated him from Sherlock and closed his arms around Sherlock’s waist, hiding his face in the man's broad and straight back.

Surprised by that unexpected gesture, Sherlock initially stiffened, turning slightly his face above his left shoulder to meet John's gaze, but uselessly, thus deciding to lower his gaze on the blonde man's hands, tight around him and gently stroking one with his right hand.

-John...-

-Sh... Don't say anything, I need to stay like this with you for a few minutes- John replied.

Remaining silent, Sherlock moved into John's embrace, allowing the man to sink his face into his chest, his right-hand fingers clenched in the front of his shirt, fastening his arms around the doctor's hips, his chin on in John’s blond hair.

-I was jealous.

I knew you'd been with other men while I was away, but until yesterday I had never really confronted myself with the reality of it- Sherlock admitted slightly tightening the embrace.

"It wasn't a good feeling, was it?" asked John without lifting his face from his hiding place.

-Not really, no.

It was like a sudden fire burning in my stomach and I couldn't stop thinking about you with other men in stranger places.

I couldn't stop those images in my mind and for a while I seriously thought I'd go crazy- Sherlock recounted.

John raised his face slightly until he placed his chin on the man’s chest meeting his eyes.

"What calmed you down?" he asked.

-Hamish.

When I got home, he kept me busy and focused my attention on something more challenging than my nightmares" - Sherlock concluded.

John sighed.

"I wish I could tell you that it was a nightmare, but I want to be honest: while you were away I slept with many different men and, considering our work, I am convinced that it was bound to happen to come across one of them sooner or later” he commented, trying to find a logical explanation for the fight of the day before.

-That doesn't excuse what I said.

Okay, you have a reputation, but it's nothing new, I always knew you were “Three Continents Watson”...

You don't get a nickname like yours spending the night playing charades -Sherlock commented, causing the other to smile amused - But that doesn't change the fact that in the end you chose me... Didn't you? -he asked John the next moment, worried that his great speech might backfire.

-Of course I chose you, you stupid genius! That is, if you still want me...-replied John.

At those words, Sherlock rolled his eyes, bringing both hands to John's face and leaning toward him to bring their lips together.

"Of course I want you" Sherlock said, accompanying every word with a kiss, making John smile.

When they parted, that atmosphere of uncertainty that had accompanied their conversation so far had finally disappeared and John smiled happily as he returned to hide his face in Sherlock's warm chest, still reluctant to loosen that connection and the detective had to think the same way as Sherlock closed again his arm around John’s waist and pressed him against his chest, caressing his back.

-I have decided that I want to form an exclusive club: with our rules and our order... Just the two of us.

The only other member admitted will obviously be Hamish-said Sherlock serious.

John went back to look at him, an amused smile on his lips.

-The Watson Holmes Club?- he asked.

Sherlock nodded.

"Even the name is posh" John commented with a chuckle.

Again Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"Because we're posh, even if you don’t want to admit it" he retorted.

John laughed pleased for a few moments, unable to see himself as one of those aristocratic snobs who crowded the "Diogenes" club.

When he finally calmed down, he looked up again at Sherlock’s face and realized that this time it was up to him to apologize.

-I have to apologize, too. Fuck... I'm sorry for the way I behaved yesterday and especially for the things I said.

I was really horrible to you and for a while I seriously considered call Mycroft and tell him of my meeting with Irene so he could track her down.

After all, a child needs his family...-commented looking away from Sherlock's.

The detective remained silent a few moments, carefully observing his partner’s face, reading the anxiety and concern that had animated John the previous day, the thoughts that had prevented him from resting quietly, the total honesty in his words when he said that Irene would be a better parent than he was.

And he understood that he would have to clarify some things once and for all.

-It's true.

A child needs both parents... But he doesn't need Irene, Hamish needs you.

We are his parents and that’s why Irene entrusted him to us: I can already imagine him perfectly, this curly-haired lanky boy with my intelligence and your charisma.

Perfect- Sherlock commented with a smile that also infected John.- You will teach him to play rugby or football and will help him understand the human component that for me has always been a mystery and I will teach him chemistry, physics, take him with me to the crime scenes or the morgue of Barts, I will teach him to play an instrument...-

And indeed it was not difficult to imagine a child with black and curly hair always energetic, with a notebook always in his hands, in need of a thousand answers; or with a Chelsea kit or a rugby outfit entirely muddy but fully satisfied with the result of the match.

Sherlock's hands again surrounded his face, leading him to meet his gaze.

"And I need you too" admitted the detective, staring into the doctor's ocean blue eyes.- I'd be a horrible father if you weren't here to control me and then we both know I'm lost without my blogger-

John smiled slowly, followed immediately by Sherlock who took advantage of their position to caress a cheekbone with his thumb.

Once again John found himself at a crossroads, forced to make a decision that would change the course of his life inexorably, but as so many times before the choice was very clear before him.

-I'm going to give you one last chance Sherlock Holmes.

But if you lie to me again, or worse, you betray me again...-warned him.

Sherlock shook his head forcefully.

-It's not going to happen, I promise-

"Good, because I'd make you regret it" John informed him with a dangerous smile.

Sherlock smiled in return, moving closer to John’s face, skimming the tip of John’s nose with his own and bringing their lips together.

John's arms tightened around the black-haired man’s shoulders, leading John to stand on tiptoes to decrease the height difference between them, responding to the kiss, sinking his fingers between the black and silky curls of the detective.

Almost attracted as magnets, their bodies annulled the distance to a minimum, touching each other's from shoulders to hips; their lips engaged in a sensual dance that tore a groan from John's throat.

Detaching himself from Sherlock's perfect mouth, John’s lips moved on his right cheek and cheekbone, teasing his long and white neck with his teeth, while his hands slid on his chest and focused on the small buttons of his shirt, freeing the former from the slot.

"Shouldn't we take care of the tea?" asked Sherlock in a broken voice.

-Fuck the tea-purred John, his face still hidden in the perfect corner between neck and shoulder, tormenting the skin with his teeth and tongue, leaving behind a red bruise.

Sherlock's elongated fingers took the sides of John's sweater, pushing it upwards, forcing the doctor’s face to move away from what had become his favorite place to get rid of the garment, only to finish undoing the buttons of Sherlock’s shirt.

"John" Sherlock mumbled, drawing the man's attention back to his face.

The doctor's blue ocean eyes met the detective's icy-blue eyes, obscured by passion and desire, and John smiled with satisfaction before taking Sherlock's hand in his and exiting the kitchen headed for the stairs leading to his bedroom.

The time to be afraid was over.

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**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi Everyone!  
I'm not sure I'll be able to post a new chapter next week so I want to wish you a MERRY CHRISTMAS AND A HAPPY NEW YEAR!  
I also want to give you and heads up: the story is almost over, but I still need to translate the last 3 chapters, and I'm not sure when I'll be able to do it with the holidays and the exams in January...   
I PROMISE that I'll post the last chapters as soon as I have a new chapter; I hope you don't hate me too much!
> 
> Eva


	12. Love me  tender

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Secrets I have held in my heart  
Are harder to hide than I thought  
Maybe I just wanna be yours"
> 
> -I wanna be yours- Artic Monkeys

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello Everyone! I had to raise the rating, I hope it wasn't a problem...  
Two more chapters till the end, are you ready?  
I wanna thank every reader that left kudos, a comment and simply read this fiction; as always you are STARS!
> 
> Enjoy this new chapter and let me know what you think!
> 
> Love, Eva

-Daddy... Come on, Misha give it a try! Daddy... Will you stop distracting him? -

Apartment B at 221 Baker Street was shrouded in afternoon sunlight filtering through the living room windows; for once the ever-present experiments that cluttered the kitchen table lay abandoned to their destiny.

The living room floor and coffee table not far from the sofa, usually hidden by newspapers and piles of Scotland Yard files, had become Hamish's playing territory, with much of the walking ground covered with soft and noisy toys that amused the child whenever his attention was focused on them.

In the room sounded the pleasant and soothing notes of the violin that Sherlock, in pajama pants and dressing gowns despite being five o'clock in the afternoon, played with undisputed mastery for the exclusive benefit of the child and the adult sitting on the floor next to the tea table.

John turned his back on Sherlock, but the black-haired man read from the relaxed posture of his shoulder and back muscles that the music was to his liking, despite having no idea who the composer was or the name of the symphony.

John's laughter echoed through the room, leading Sherlock to look away from the bow of his violin that moved gently between his fingers just in time to observe the doctor leaning towards Hamish and kissing gently the baby's nose, leading Hamish to laugh happy, eyes lit up by delight.

It was incredible the bond that had formed between John and Hamish.

Sherlock had never had the slightest doubt that John would be an exceptional father, but he had estimated that a longer period of adjustment would be necessary, but he had to think again.

Ever since the man returned to Baker Street, John had thrown himself headlong into the new role of parent learning quickly how to change a diaper, how to bathe Hamish without flooding the bathroom (as had happened to Sherlock the first times), and had managed several times to calm the little one during his tantrums thanks to small affectionate gestures and the reassuring and calm sound of his voice.

For his part Hamish seemed beguiled by John, perhaps already aware of the differences in attitude that were between the man and Sherlock, moving his gaze on John every time he heard him speak, showing him every object that caught his attention so that John could shared that discovery with him and snuggled up against his chest when the doctor picked him up.

Two days after returning to Baker Street, John had taken Hamish with him to the clinic for a check-up, to make sure everything was in order: the child had made Sarah and the nurses who had taken care of him fall in love, filling John with unexpected pride.

Sarah had found Hamish in perfect health and in good standing with the mandatory vaccinations and had advised both of them to start the weaning process, already a few months late, as soon as possible.

Following that visit, John had gone to Sainsbury's at the first opportunity and raided the infant aisle buying at least one pack of each suitable preparation or biscuit for a child of Hamish's age, starting that same evening to test the baby's taste buds with different baby food.

As Mycroft had predicted on the day Hamish became part of their lives, the child had already started crawling and, although it was evident that crawling for him was a lot of fun, he seemed ready to attempt the next step and now his mind was engaged in seeking the right movements that would allow him to stand up.

Also, ever since he returned to Baker Street, John had not stopped talking to Hamish, aware as much as Sherlock how important it was to helping the child's mental development and that it would stimulate Hamish's "curiosity" to say his first word.

That's why, in the midst of an _allegro _movement, Sherlock focused his attention on John, removing the bow from the strings interrupting the symphony in half; the blond stared at him with a raised eyebrow in what had always been an expression of benevolent reproach, and Sherlock rolled his eyes.

-I don't understand why you have to be daddy- Sherlock said, reopening a discussion they had had several times in the last few days.

By the time John returned home, speaking to Hamish, he had proclaimed himself Daddy; Sherlock was happy and satisfied that the man wanted an active and lasting role in the child's life, but why had he chosen a title that had always been of the birth father?

John flashed a smile at him as Sherlock put his violin and bow in the case.

-Do you want to be daddy? -John asked conciliatory.

-If I'm not daddy, then who am I?- Sherlock asked.

-Father? -proposed John, casting a glance at Hamish to make sure the child had not run away to the kitchen taking advantage of his distraction.

-Too formal-refused Sherlock.

-Papa? -

"No way" Sherlock said, as he approached John and sat behind him on the floor, his chest against John’s back.

John smiled for that affectionate gesture, so little in accordance with the rude and callous Sherlock Holmes the world knew and settled comfortably until he laid his head on Sherlock’s right shoulder.

-How about Dad? I can see you as Dad- he then commented, moving his head slightly to meet the man's ice-blue eyes.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow, an ironic expression on his face.

-Is that so? -

John nodded.

-Yes! All his friends will be fascinated by your charm and will fall madly in love with you... His charming dad-John commented with a smile.

"It's a pity that I'm not charming at all" Sherlock retorted, holding a scruffy rabbit to Hamish, who watched it suspiciously before clutching it in one hand.

-Of course you are! But you're charming only with me... Or when you're questioning one of your suspects-answered John.

-That doesn't count. It's work!- replied Sherlock.

Slightly dejected, John sighed.

-Dad's not really capable of accepting compliments, is he, Misha? -John commented, ruffling the child's soft hair.

-And your daddy is a romantic fool!- Sherlock readily retorted.

John moved his head back on the black-haired man’s shoulder and gave him a small kiss on his neck, smiling at Sherlock after catching his eye.

-Guilty... But I thought it was one of the things you loved the most about me, William-

A dry expression instantly appeared on Sherlock's face as his body moved away slightly from John's.

-I certainly don't like it when you call me William...- Sherlock commented annoyed.

John frowned.

-Why is that?- he asked confused.

"Because it's a boring name, it doesn't represent me at all" Sherlock explained.

John moved into the man’s arms, his shoulder slipping slightly against Sherlock's armpit and his chest pressed against the side of the detective, a hand slowly stroking the nape of Sherlock’s neck, some curls weaving between his fingers.

-Okay. Now, let me explain why I like your name.

I love Sherlock, you know I do, from the first day our paths crossed and until the moment they will separate forever… We wouldn't be here if I hadn't promised to spend the rest of my life with him, even though there are no timetables, crazy experiments and bullet holes in the wall or all the crazy things that happen to us" John said, making Sherlock’s lips curved in a little smile.

-But at the same time, I like William, you know why?

Because he is such a special person that only two other people in the world have the privilege of knowing him, and I am sure that with time I will scream that name with all the air I have in my lungs in the same way that I now scream Sherlock's name every time William will do something stupid or reckless- John concluded.

Sherlock stared at him for a moment before putting his arm around the blonde's back again.

"That would make things a little confusing" Sherlock simply said.

John chuckled amused, lowering his gaze for a few moments before bringing his eyes back on Sherlock, in time to catch a glimpse of the man's amused smile.

Leaning closer to Sherlock, John approached the man’s right ear and, continuing to stroke the black curls at the base of his neck, disclosed his lips and tickled Sherlock’s earlobe with his breath, making chills run down Sherlock’s back.

-Then it means I'm going to yell Sherlock around the house and just whisper William when it's just the two of us…Maybe in the bedroom- John said, licking his bottom lip with the tip of his tongue and touching Sherlock's earlobe.

The detective swallowed and slightly moved his head until he met John's gaze, his eyes slightly blurred.

"That certainly makes it less boring" Sherlock said in a hoarse voice that he hurried to hide clearing his throat.

John quickly moved his gaze from his icy-blue eyes to Sherlock's perfectly drawn lips and smiled.

"I knew that in the end I would be able to convince you... - he answered before moving closer to kiss briefly his full lips and then give his attention back to Hamish.

Wrapped in Sherlock's embrace, John continued to play with the child, his mind only partially focused on his own actions, while a predominant part of his brain continued to reflect on his own desires and how they had only become stronger in previous days.

The night he got back to Baker Street, perhaps to silence the noises buzzing in his head since his encounter with Irene, John had let himself go and dragged Sherlock into the detective's bedroom, falling on the bed while getting rid of each other's clothes.

But fortunately, when Sherlock's perfect, naked body had presented itself to his eyes, John had regained self-awareness, making him realize that that intimacy, Sherlock’s eyes that were staring back at him completely honest and even slightly frightened by the intensity of his feelings, was a gift too big and important to be wasted in a gesture of retaliation towards The Woman.

So John had taken a deep breath to clear his head and had spent all his energy to prove to Sherlock that from that moment on there would be no one else, that after that night John Watson and Sherlock Holmes would belong to each other.

Completely and totally.

Sherlock had melted in his hands, under his lips, unable to withstand the waves of pleasure that hit him leaving him breathless, his face hidden in the warm skin between John's shoulder and neck or in the pillow to avoid waking Hamish with his moans.

That night, Sherlock had fallen asleep against his chest, his head under John's chin, his long legs folded so he could meet the doctor's shorter ones, showing for the first time in years to another person his need for love and protection.

When they met in the kitchen for breakfast the next morning, John had given him a bright smile and, when he had brought him the first cup of tea of the day, John had kissed him on his forehead, then returned to take care of Misha, certain that that little gesture of affection was enough to help Sherlock understand the enormity of his feelings.

"I was thinking about something" said John, breaking his silence and turning his mind away from those memories.

Although John couldn't wait to live that experience, he had put aside his lusty desires in the last few days (despite Sherlock having gone out of his way to tease him), because a part of him did not feel comfortable about having sex with Hamish in the room.

Not when there was a perfectly functioning and empty room upstairs.

The best solution would be to turn his bedroom into a children's room, so that over the years Misha would have his little "shelter" to hide or to conduct his own experiments, if he had taken a little of Sherlock's scientific interest.

John... John could move his few belongings downstairs in Sherlock's bedroom.

It was an important step, he was aware of it, especially for a man like Sherlock who had always valued his own intimacy.

There had been occasions in the past, before The Fall, when he and Sherlock had shared the bed, but it was always emergency situations or booking mistakes.

Would Sherlock have been in favor of this change?

The doctor had thought long and hard about the most suitable words to use to prevent his speech from taking a wrong turn or for Sherlock to feel compelled to accept this change, but with Sherlock you could not never be sure.

Sherlock glanced at him briefly before nodding.

-I know... I can hear your mental processes from here- commented in a calm voice.

"It's not all this great distance" said John with a hinted smile before moving his head slightly so he could see the detective's face.

-I was thinking that Misha needs a room of his own.

A real room in which he can grow up, without you being forced to share your spaces with him.

Maybe we could take his things to the room upstairs and I could move my things down here- John said slightly worried.

-The living room is already messy as it is, if we add your belongings we will no longer be able to move-comment Sherlock moving his head left and right, considering the proposal.

John chuckled.

-Ah! I didn't know you were a comedian as a second job...-he commented good-naturedly.

Sherlock shrugged.

"You always have to have a few aces up your sleeve" said the black-haired man, a hint of a smile bending his lips.

-Seriously, what do you think of my idea?- John asked again.

Sherlock shrugged.

-Personally, I think you should have moved your stuff to my room from the day you came home a couple of weeks ago... Also for a matter of convenience: we would have avoided cleaning both rooms-added almost carelessly.

John smiled happily.

"You never do the cleaning" John pointed out before leaning toward Sherlock's face leaving a few small kisses on Sherlock's full lips.

-Thanks Love- John said, settling down against Sherlock's chest, the fingers of his left hand stroking the inside of the detective right arm under the silk robe sleeve.

Once again, silence fell between the two men, broken only by Hamish's amused sounds and noisy toys.

-Do you think we're going to have sex soon? - Sherlock asked taking John by surprise.

-SHERLOCK!- John reproached him, a note of embarrassment and disbelief in his voice.

-What? - Sherlock asked calm.

-You can't talk about this in front of Misha! It's not an appropriate conversation - the blond scolded him.

-Oh John... You're so English sometimes-commented Sherlock snorting amused.

John sighed, upsetting his hair with a nervous gesture, still shocked by the innocence with which Sherlock could talk about a similar subject, before looking up at his partner.

-Anyway... I think, I hope so...-John confessed with a little smile, looking at the man’s ice-blue eyes.

-But I do not want to rush things, I want things to progress slowly, find out what you like and what turns you on...-he added, turning in Sherlock’s arms so he could look at Sherlock’s face, stroking with his thumb the vein in his neck that became evident every time Sherlock moved his neck to the right.

-That’s easy, you turn me on...-answered the black-haired man.

A beautiful smile, capable of mixing shyness and happiness, appeared on John's face, illuminating his face.

-I've always knew you have a way with words...- John said before swallowing visibly. -I promise you we'll have sex, soon...-

Sherlock smiled mischievously and lowered his head, kissing gently the skin of John’s shoulder, sensitive of the wound that had interrupted John's military career; the wound that had led John in his path.

John let slip a broken sigh, full of desire, his fingers clenched around the light and elusive fabric of the detective's silk robe.

Sherlock brought his lips closer to John's ear and kissed the earlobe, teasing him with the tip of his tongue and then sighed.

-I can’t stop thinking about everything I want to do to you, John. Ever since you came back, I can't stop thinking about you... Every time I look at you, a new idea comes to my mind...-

Trying to fight against the effect that the low voice and the warm breath against his ear united with Sherlock's long-limbed body against him, had on his body and mind, John swallowed and moved the tip of his tongue over his inexplicably dry lips.

-R-really? -

Sherlock rubbed the tip of his nose against the hot spot behind his ear, a hand on his chest on John’s heart, as if he wanted to control John's pulse.

-Mh-mh.

Sometimes I think it's so obvious that you can read it on my face... I want to record every part of your body in my Mind Palace, even those that you consider insignificant, I want to taste you... I want to touch you and leave my marks on you so that everyone can see that you are mine...

Would you let me, John?- Sherlock asked him in a thick voice.

-Oh Sherlock...- John rubbed a cheek against the black curls, his nostrils flooded with the scent of the expensive shampoo that the detective used every day.

-I guess there's nothing I wouldn't let you do... If you'll let me do the same- he added in a whisper.

Sherlock slightly moved away from the doctor, as much as he needed to meet his gaze again, sinking into John’s blue ocean eyes.

-Anything-

Inflamed by that single word, John raised a hand behind Sherlock's neck to level their faces and let their mouths collide in a kiss without any semblance of tenderness: John’s lips closed around Sherlock's lower lip, teasing him with his teeth as his tongue eagerly made his way into Sherlock’s mouth, exploring every corner and every hidden recess with determination, satisfied with the way Sherlock surrendered and responded to his kiss, his pale fingers clenched around his shirt.

In that kiss there was the promise of nights spent together, in each other’s arms, of hours spent exploring each other’s body until there were no more secret, until he knew every scar, every slight imperfection as if it were imprinted on his own skin.

Suddenly a small laugh rang out in the living room, prevailing in John's ears over the deafening noise of his own heartbeat; the doctor ended the kiss and, with confused eyes turned and looked around for the origin of the noise, meeting Hamish sitting a few yards from them.

As soon as the child noticed that he had caught John attention, Hamish giggled again, leading John to smile pleased and lay his forehead on Sherlock's right shoulder slightly embarrassed.

-The first time that as a teenager he's complaining because we're kissing, I'll remind him that as a child his only reaction was to look at us happily and laugh-Sherlock said in a slightly hoarse voice.

John laughed and hid his face in the hollow on his partner’s neck for a few moments before meeting his gaze again.

-I think your ideas are terribly interesting, but maybe it's better to wait for Hamish to be asleep- John commented.

Sherlock tilted his head to the right and put a kiss on the doctor's hair.

-I think you're right- Sherlock said before ending their hug and standing up. - I'll send a text to Mycroft to send someone to rearrange your room- he added.

John stood up as well and picked up Hamish, turning then to the kitchen where Sherlock had sat at the table with his laptop in front of himself and his cell phone in one hand.

-Sherlock! Your brother is not at our service! -John scolded him good-naturedly.

The detective looked up from the cell phone screen and looked genuinely confused.

-What's his purpose then? -

John shook his head and walked with Hamish to the bathroom, to begin the evening routine.

_____________________________

Usually their crime scenes were abandoned alleys, or derelict shelters, crumbling houses where the closest thing to civilization was a dirty sink with rusty faucets.

There were few cases that Sherlock considered "interesting" that took place in rich neighborhood ( _the only one John could really remember, unfortunately, was that of Irene Adler_); then there were others from which John was very happy to stay away because of the halo of secrecy that they carried behind _(like the Baskerville military_ _base_), but in which he always ended up getting involved because of the wild madman whom he kept chasing around London.

Only a few times, perhaps they could counted them on their fingertips, their crime scene was such a "normal" bedroom: with rock band posters on the walls, pastel-colored walls, white closet, bookshelves full of books and a desk with a laptop placed neatly in the middle between a table lamp and a photo frame.

On the bed that occupied the center of the room was lying a boy, sixteen years old at most, wearing a pair of perfectly ironed black pants, a white shirt and a black tie.

Dead.

Around him the forensics team was finishing collecting the last evidences, while Sally and Greg were on the right side of the bed, the left side empty, giving Sherlock and John space to analyze the body.

-Okay, the boy, was called Tom Baker and he was 17. The girl, Alison Wilson, is 16.

They were both on the bed, Tom as you see him, but she almost fall out of the bed facing the floor-reported Greg.

-How's the girl?- John asked right away.

-They say she's going to make it, even though she's still in critical condition for now.

Her mother called the ambulance just in time: she heard some strange noises from her daughter's room and went up to check on them- Greg said.

"It was a suicide pact: they wanted to die together" said Sherlock, his gaze fixed on the corpse.

-Then why did she change her mind? -asked Sally, without any negative inflection in her voice.

-Maybe at the last moment she got scared, she's only sixteen-years old- intruded Anderson.

-Oh, please, Anderson don't inflict your opinions on the rest of the world! If you decide to die for the person you love, you don't back down at the last minute- Sherlock said bitter, trying to ward off the unrelenting thoughts that made their way into his mind.

-What do you know about it?- Anderson pestered him again.

-Shut up Anderson! -John promptly intervened, aware of the demons that were tormenting Sherlock at the moment.

-Okay, let's all calm down and do our job!- Greg scolded them, trying to restore order and peace.

Sherlock bent down on his knees and watched the body for a few moments with his pocket magnifying glass before standing up and giving way to John.

-Poison... What a dull and dirty way of dying- Sherlock commented clearly disappointed at that uninteresting crime scene.

-What do you mean dirty? -asked Lestrade, frowning.

-The poison does not leave a nice corpse: before dying the victim is prone to vomiting and seizures, unless he ingests a sleeping pill to control the side effects- John explained in a professional tone, continuing his observation of the body.

\- But I can see why they chose poison: cutting their veins would have been messy, throwing themselves in front of a bus is not a sure way to end it and surely they could not do it together, they were too young to get a gun and hang themselves must have seemed too complicated- John concluded finally raising his glance from the body and noticing the gaze of all those present on himself, leading him to frown.

-What is it?- John asked.

-Something you want to take off your chest, John?- Anderson asked, giving voice to what everyone had thought.

A smoldering expression appeared on the doctor's face, leading him to clenched both hands, abandoned against his hips, carefully avoiding meeting Sherlock's gaze that he felt burning more than the others on himself.

-I was just talking about the case! -he said though clenched teeth.

Greg sighed and shook his head, well aware that Anderson's insinuations were not so far from reality.

-Okay, but why make a suicide pact? After all, they were two kids...- he commented, throwing a glance at the boy and immediately thinking about Daniel, wondering for the thousandth time if he was okay and safe.

Sherlock made to speak, but John anticipated him.

-He was dying-

The detective turned towards John, throwing a look surprised and interested at the same time to John.

"Leukemia- answered John without looking away from the detective.

-How...-asked dumbfounded Lestrade.

-I'm a doctor, Greg.

I can't tell you the type of leukemia, but the symptoms are all there: the lymph nodes in his neck are enlarged, he is as thin as a rake, and if you lift his head off the pillow you'll find that he had started to lose his hair.

I would say that he underwent a cycle of chemotherapy, he had early positive results, which would explain why hair loss is limited only to the base of the skull, but he needed a second cycle and when it became clear that there no hopes he would make it, they made the suicide pact- concluded in a professional tone, but with a slight smile.

For a few moments there was an incredulous silence in the room until Sherlock, who had never let go of John's gaze, bowed his lips into a mischievous smile.

"Wow" he said, making Scotland Yard officers open their mouths in shocked surprise.

John lowered his head slightly, enjoying the thrill that that single word had unleashed along his back, before encountering Sherlock’s gaze again.

-Were you like this in the Army, too?

Because it would explain a lot of things...- Sherlock added.

John chuckled amused and then addressed a mischievous smile to him.

-You'll never know...-

-Are you two done flirting? -asked Greg meddling and breaking the game of glances between the two men.

Sherlock turned to Greg and rolled his eyes, clearly bored, his hands in his Belstaff pockets and a wry expression in his face.

-It's all so boring. It's not a murder! Why are we even here?- he asked Lestrade.

"We decided together that you would start slowly... - recalled Lestrade, not at all impressed by the detective's attitude.

-You've decided it... – Sherlock mumbled.

-They took the poison, they both wanted to end it convinced that they could continue this romantic and wonderful love story in the afterlife.

One has achieved the goal, the other has not. End of story-he said in a bored voice.

-You're not even pretending to think about the case! - scolded Lestrade distressed.

"But it's all so boring" repeated Sherlock for the umpteenth time.

-Then how do you explain the fact that they both took the poison at the same time but the girl manage to survive?- Sally asked, trying to avoid a fight between the two men.

"Maybe the girl took a smaller dose because she panicked at the last minute... - replied Sherlock.

"If I say that, I'm an idiot, if you say so, you're a genius" said caustic Anderson.

-Are you still talking Anderson? - Sherlock said clearly annoyed.

Completely indifferent to the conversation that was taking place around him, John had begun to look around the room, tiptoeing into Alison's world, looking at photos of a honey-haired girl with brown eyes along with her friends, with her parents, and especially with Tom, the boy for whom she was willing to die.

John knew that feeling too well.

In addition, he also recognized that glitter that shone in the girl's laughing eyes and made him realize that, although they were still children, Alison was really convinced that she had found the love of her life.

It must have been devastating for the girl to know that a force greater than her, unbeatable, would rip them apart soon.

John quickly observed the books in the library and recognized most of the titles, including classics and new "masterpieces" of children's literature, but one volume in particular caught his eye, leading him to remove it from the shelf and browse the pages to a few moments, noting that some of them were more consumed than others.

A distant memory of his literature classes at school and the many times he had tried to impress a girl with that volume made him realize what had happened in that room.

_"Oh, true apothecary, thy drugs are quick..."_

"Thus with a kiss I die...-he said to himself, attracting the attention of those present in the room and interrupting the conversation.

Sherlock frowned and stared at the doctor intrigued, noticing the volume he held tightly in his hands before returning to lay his eyes on his face.

-What? -

-Did you erase everything about Shakespeare, Sherlock?- John asked him as he approached the group again.

-Who?- the detective asked.

John shook his head and passed the volume to Lestrade who glanced at the cover before returning to stare at the two men.

-As I thought.

It took me a while to figure it out because the girl wasn't here, and I'm sure you'd get there too if you'd gone beyond your disappointment at the lack of a interesting crime- John said bringing the other to roll his eyes again.

-What are you talking about, John?- Sherlock asked.

-Alison wanted to die. She loved him.

And it's true, when Tom took the poison, she didn't have the courage to do the same, but not because she was scared or had second thoughts, but because she wanted to make sure he had someone next to him until he was gone- John paused for a moment and swallowed visibly, then searching again for Sherlock’s look.

-She did not want to leave him alone.

But she made a mistake, if we want to call it a mistake... She kissed him- John explained and turned around to include Scotland Yard officers in his explanation.

Greg reflected a few moments on his words and then glanced at the book he still hold in his hands and nodded.

"It makes sense to me" he said.

"If you see it like this, it's almost romantic...-added Sally.

Sherlock looked at the detective with a confused expression and frown.

\- How is that possible?

That's ridiculous! It's impossible that the poison came into circulation from his lips, it wouldn't have been enough!- Sherlock retorted.

John arched an eyebrow at the same time surprised and amused.

-Really?- John asked.

Sherlock nodded.

"I must have done something wrong so far" he said with a hint of irony in his voice.

-What are you talking about?- Sherlock asked getting frustrated.

John shook his head.

-Nothing. Look, maybe I can explain to you how the poison went into circulation, but not now- John replied.

-Why not now? - urged Sherlock, more and more annoyed that he was the only one who didn't realize what had happened in that room.

-Because you wouldn't like it... I mean, you'd like it, but I don't think we should do it here in front of everyone- John explained.

-When did I ever care about other people's opinions?- Sherlock asked again.

To those words, John sighed: sometimes Sherlock could be really obtuse! Even more than Anderson.

-Okay. But don't say I didn't warn you-John said starting to search inside the pockets of his coat- Let's see... Does anyone have a candy?- he then asked not having find what he needed.

Sally approached the blonde man with a candy between her fingers and an amused smile on her lips that led John to raise his eyes to the sky: this was just the kind of situation he hated being in!

"Thank you, ah licorice, I think it should be fine" John said, opening the candy wrap and sticking it in his mouth before turning to Greg and Sally. - You don't need to stay- he said then to his two friends, Sherlock's gaze always on him, careful not to miss even a single move.

-Are you kidding me? I've been waiting for this moment for years; I want to be in the front row...- Sally said with a wry smile.

This time it was John's turn to sighed annoyed.

-Thank you Sally, I knew I could always count on your support... - John commented before taking the few steps that separated him from Sherlock and stopping in front of him.

With a small reassuring smile on his lips, to help clear the confusion still in Sherlock’s eyes, John eliminated the distance between them, his gaze fixed in his partner’s icy-blue ones.

John raised his hands and cupped Sherlock’s face, allowing John to come face-to-face with Sherlock when he raised on his toes.

After a slight hesitation John’s lips caressed Sherlock’s full lips gently; despite anticipating what was about to happen, Sherlock stiffened with surprise and embarrassment, but the next moment John's lips brushed Sherlock’s with small touches, and one of John's hand moved on the back of Sherlock’s neck, sinking his fingers into his black curls, in a gesture so familiar and reassuring that Sherlock felt safe, perfectly at ease, despite the fact that part of his brain was still aware of the presence of "intruders" in the room.

Instinctively, as soon as Sherlock’s long arms tightened around John's waist, bringing the doctor feet back to the ground, the detective began to respond to the kiss, following John's slightly dry lips, licking John’s lower lip with the tip of his tongue and nibbling the soft skin with his teeth and, creeping into John’s mouth as soon as John opened his lips.

John couldn't hold back a small satisfied smile for his partner's enthusiasm, leaving Sherlock take control of the kiss, wrapping an arm around the man’s thin waist and pulling Sherlock against his chest to lengthen that moment for as long as possible.

It was only after a long moment of luxurious silence that John notice an insistent noise that was trying to attract his attention and only then his brain set aside for a moment the wonderful sensations he felt every time he was in Sherlock’s arms and remembered where they were and why they were there.

Slowly John opened his eyes, instantly meeting Sherlock's and ended the kiss, dissolving the tangle that he and the detective had created in less than a minute.

Before turning to Greg and the other officers, John looked at Sherlock and flashed him a smile as he looked at the detective's hot face; it was an incredible feeling to know that no one else besides him was capable of provoking those reactions in Sherlock Holmes.

The doctor cleared his throat and turned around, deliberately ignoring Sally's amused smile or the incredulous expression in Anderson's eyes, turning back to Sherlock.

-Mh... Move your tongue on your teeth and lips and tell me if you notice anything different- John said in a slightly hoarse voice.

Sherlock frowned for the unexpected question and stared at the doctor with a still confused look.

-W-What?- Sherlock asked him in an incredibly low and sexy voice that ignite a spark of desire in John's groin.

-Tongue on your teeth and lips- John repeated sliding his tongue on his lower lip as well, trying to move his thoughts away from the dirty images that were surfacing in his mind.

Sherlock obeyed and John could clearly read on his face the moment the brilliant genius came to the final intuition: his eyes widened and they searched for John's ocean-blue ones, as if they wanted to share that moment with his partner.

-It's... Oh John... It's brilliant! -he commented again in disbelief.

John smiled happily.

-Thank you- John said before turning to Greg. -Now that we've convinced Sherlock, we can close the case, don't you think? - he asked him, once again in control of his emotions.

Greg shrugged.

-I think so. But why was Alison half out of bed? -he asked, giving voice to his last doubt, determined to ignore what had just happened between the two men.

-Check under the bed and you will surely find the poison vial: after the kiss, she must have realized that something was wrong, she made to take the bottle, but probably the poison had already had an effect on her coordination causing her to spill the bottle on the floor- meddled Sherlock.

Greg stared at him a few moments before nodding.

-Let's go, John!- Sherlock said, walking with quick steps toward the door, followed a short distance by the doctor.

For a few moments in the room there was silence until, unable to hold back much longer, Sally burst out laughing, drawing the attention of the two men.

-Donovan? -

-I'm sorry Chief, but one more minute and I'd have drag them both into the first empty bedroom.

They seemed on the verge of having sex on the floor...-she said, slowly shaking her head before walking towards the door as well.

____________________________________

Three days after closing the case of the modern Romeo and Juliet, John was sitting on the couch in his pajamas, laptop on his lap, busy writing a new blog post about the case of the two lovers.

Sherlock had repeatedly expressed his contrary opinion on the matter, commenting that the readers of the blog would find it terribly boring, but John, always an hopeless romantic, was instead firmly convinced that even a small case like that (two teenagers in love who decide to be together until the extreme consequence), would have stirred a fair amount of interest.

The notebook on which he had written a few important notes was placed on the tea table in front of him, next to a bottle of beer that was warming up quickly, the music in the background covering the noise of the shower filtering through the closed door of the bathroom.

Luckily, despite the fact that three days had passed, Sherlock had not let himself to be caught up in the boredom that inevitably followed their cases, focusing his attention on Hamish and experimenting with baby food: what foods were most appreciated and which it received, from the first taste, a total rejection.

All of his observations were written in a notebook, updated daily, and were shown to John to make him part of his "discoveries".

In addition, every day, Sherlock and Hamish disappeared for a couple of hours in what the detective called "_The Introduction to London_": Sherlock will get lost in the crowded streets, pointing every building, street or alley that had even the slightest interest to Hamish, and explained to the child the story unknown to the rest of the English population, firmly convinced that those long conversations would remain in Hamish's memory.

The noise of the shower stopped, taking John away from his thoughts and bringing him back to the present, stretching out a hand towards the bottle of London Pride for a long sip.

After taking a quick look at the blog post, half done, and aware that Sherlock would not help with the writing of it, John saved the document and closed the laptop, placing it on the coffee table before sitting more comfortably on the couch.

Sherlock opened the bathroom door moments later, dressed also in his pajamas and in his blue robe, busy drying his black curls with a white towel.

-Where does this music come from?- Sherlock asked stopping halfway between the bathroom and the living room.

-The TV. I could be more specific, but I'm sure you'd forget the information immediately- John replied without turning around.

Sherlock shrugged his shoulders and abandoned the towel on John's armchair, then stopped by the sofa.

"Probably" he said, dropping himself on the couch, placing his legs on John's thighs. - Why are you listening to it?- he asked.

-I like it.-

-This song doesn't make any sense- Sherlock said after being silent for a few moments.

Unhappy with his position, Sherlock moved around on the sofa until he came closer to John, his back against the armrest of the sofa pulling his partner closer until John's back was against his chest, an arm around John’s waist, satisfied and happy to see the absolute confidence with which John relaxed against him, laying his head against his right shoulder, a hand on Sherlock’s left arm.

-Of course it makes sense- John retorted with a hinted smile, moving his head slightly to meet Sherlock’s gaze.

The next moment he began to sing in a low, sensual voice trying to imitate the singer, his lips a short distance from the detective's left ear.

_I’ ve been drinking, I’ ve been drinking  
I get filthy when that liquor get into me  
I ‘ve been thinking, I’ ve been thinking  
Why can't I keep my fingers off you, baby?  
I want you, na na  
Why can't I keep my fingers off you, baby?  
I want you, na na_

Ignoring the unexpected heat that had spread over his face to that spontaneous serenade, and which was almost certainly clearly visible to John, Sherlock swallowed and tried to rebuild his facade, which for so many years had been a second skin, but which now crumbled at the slightest hint of seduction by John H. Watson.

-Mh… It's still a terrible song- Sherlock commented in a slightly hoarse voice.

John chuckled, however satisfied, and placed a small kiss on the black-haired man’s neck.

For a few moments they were silent, surfing between tv channels, but without focusing their attention on any show; in the silence Sherlock's fingers began to explore the solid and so familiar body against his, eager to discover the secrets that John had managed to hide from his attention until that moment: he caressed with his fingertips John’s right shoulder, feeling the muscles move with the smallest stimulation, then slide down on his right arm considering the increased concentration of muscle tissue in the forearm thanks to years of military training, before continuing on the right arm to finish with John’s right hand, that hand that so often with his twin had cared for him, which had saved his life countless times, had clearly shown his anger or frustration during a discussion even more than words, that hand that caressed Hamish with extreme love and attention.

**"_Take_ _my hand"_**

A hand that, despite the confusion of those distant days, had tightened around his and allowed Sherlock to guided him, certain that Sherlock would protect John and bring both of them to safety.

Disturbed by his own thoughts, Sherlock rested his forehead on John's shoulder, hiding his face from John, closing his eyes for a few moments.

The hand that had hold the remote until then reached for his black curls at the back of his head, still slightly damp for the shower and sank his fingers for what was quickly becoming a relaxing and reassuring gesture at the same time.

-Are you still with me? – John asked him, a hint of uncertainty and concern in his voice.

Sherlock took a deep breath and moved his head in a nod.

-Misha loves his new room- John said.

To those words, Sherlock smiled.

**Wonderful incomparable John**... Although he did not know what had dragged Sherlock into his mind, John was ready to do his best to remind him that there was no point in getting lost in memories, not when Hamish and John were now in his life.

-It's not finished yet, but you can see that for now he doesn't need a lot of stuff around him- John carried on.

"He must have taken that from you" Sherlock answered, raising his face from John’s shoulder.

-Mh... We'll talk about it in a few years-

Felling much better, Sherlock placed his lips on the blonde's neck, determined to show him his gratitude and love, laying small kisses that relaxed John and enticed him to move his head slightly to show more of his neck.

-Is Hamish asleep? -Sherlock asked before teasing the still slightly tanned skin of John’s neck with his teeth.

-Mh mh...-John merely answered, his eyes closed and his body abandoned against Sherlock.

Sherlock smiled and his lips teased more of John’s neck till the doctor turned his head and pulled Sherlock face closer as their lips met.

John lips were warm and slightly chapped, and Sherlock couldn’t resist to gently tease them with the tip of his tongue, while a hand cupped John’s cheek to prevent him from moving.

John responded to the kiss with the same tenderness, but let the passion quickly take over, stroking his boyfriend’s lip with the tip of his tongue, nibbling on Sherlock’s lower lip, until Sherlock opened his lips under his, leaving him full control over the kiss, allowing John to dip his tongue into his mouth and leading both of them in a dance of which they were still learning the steps and which kept them busy for a long time, until the need for air forced them to separate.

Breathing noisily, John moved away from the detective and turned around, shifting the weight of his body on his knees long enough to get rid of the his t-shirt, before straddling Sherlock’s lap, wrapping his arms on Sherlock’s shoulders, bending his head down to meet once again his lover’s lips.

Eager to undo any distance between them, Sherlock closed his arms around John's waist, starting again the abruptly interrupted kiss_("Breathing is decidedly boring_"), one hand caressing John's warm skin, mumbling when John's stocky, callous fingers moved from his shoulders to his chest, stopping on Sherlock’s right side before swiftly slipping under the fabric of his t-shirt on his abdomen, tracing with his fingertips the scars that covered his white skin, caressing them with infinite tenderness and inherent sadness for not being able to protect his lover from danger.

Sherlock pulled back and met John’s ocean-blue eyes, clearly reading in his gaze the thoughts that plagued the doctor, his forehead against John’s.

-What happened brought us here together.

It has been a long and painful journey, but if it was the only way to get here with you then I would do it again- Sherlock said, slightly embarrassed by the husky tone of his voice and the clear sentiment in it.

An unexpected sheen appeared in John's eyes, leading him to wonder if he had said anything wrong, before the other man put his hand on his right cheek.

-Despite everything I couldn't have asked for anything better- John whispered.

Sherlock smiled, annulling with a slight movement of his head the distance between them to capture John's lips for a new passionate kiss; their lips slanting together lazily, while Sherlock’s body pressed against John’s trying to forget the sad thoughts that had surprised him a few moments before and focusing his full attention on his lover, cataloguing every little sigh or moan that his lips could snatch from Sherlock.

Pulling away once more with short breath from their kiss, John lowered his head, moving on Sherlock to focus his attention on Sherlock's long neck; that small movement brought his hips closer to Sherlock’s, their erections still contained by their pajamas sliding together.

A shiver run down John's back, leading him to close both hands around Sherlock's wrists, in need of an anchor to prevent him from getting lost in that sea of sensations; trying to gather his thoughts, John took a deep breath, but before he could do or say anything, Sherlock had once again taken his lips for a passionate kiss, a kiss almost violent, under which John let himself go completely.

Just then a pop song broke the silence of the living room causing them to jolt.

_"I shot the sheriff but I didn't shoot the deputy..."_

Sherlock pulled his face away from John's and looked around, identifying the cause of annoyance in John's cell phone.

-What the heck…- Sherlock asked, looking at John.

"It's Lestrade" John said a little breathless.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and move closer to John's face, kissing his left cheek before rubbing the tip of his nose against John’s left ear, heedless of the annoying music that still rang out in the living room.

"Don't answer…" he said before catching the earlobe between his teeth.

Overwhelmed by Sherlock’s charm, John swallowed closing his eyes as his fingers gripped the detective's black hair to prevent him from pulling his face away, just as silence fell.

-Oh God... Sherlock- John murmured in a hoarse voice, moving his head to meet Sherlock’s full lips again.

But his cell phone started ringing again, leading Sherlock to end their kiss abruptly with an annoyed groan.

-Damn it! – he said frustrated, dropping his head backwards against the sofa cushions.

-Okay, let me see what happened. I’ll try to be quick; I promise!- John said to him, standing up and walking fast to the kitchen table where he had left his cell phone.

-Greg?- he said right after he answered the call.

-Hey John! I need your help-

John glanced at the detective who, in a gesture of frustration, had lay down on the couch, his back turned to the living room.

-Is everything okay?- John asked frowning.

-What's that? Ah...Yeah, everything is all right.

Listen, is Sherlock with you? -Greg asked.

"Mh mh"

He was mathematically certain that Sherlock had already captured much of the information he needed to understand the nature of their conversation, but John could still do his best to maintain a semblance of privacy.

-Fuck... Okay, I need you to come to my house with your first aid kit" Greg told him after taking a deep breath.

John nodded almost in a military way biting his lower lip, busy checking the inventory of his own bag in his mind.

-All right.

Do you need something in particular?- he asked Greg hands-on.

-Needle and thread-

Once again John found himself nodding.

-All right. I'll be there as soon as I can- John said ready to end the call.

"Ah, John..." Greg called, staying silent for a few moments. -Don’t let Sherlock follow you-

It would have been easier to do an open-heart surgery without all the surgical instruments.

"I'm gonna do my best" he said, ending the call.

John turned to Sherlock and exhaled deeply, trying to pull in the far corner of his brain the licentious thoughts that had occupied his mind until a few minutes earlier.

"I've got to go out for a while" he said, facing the detective's back.

-Obviously- Sherlock commented annoyed, sitting down with a quick motion, his gaze fixed on John’s face. - Clearly, this is not a case because Lestrade did not send me any message nor tried to contact me before calling you; also since you're done talking to Lestrade you're tense and you're acting weird, avoiding my gaze, which means that our dear detective asked you to go alone- Sherlock concluded all in one breath.

John looked down and stared at his toes, trying to control that uncontrolled reflex that led him to compliment the detective at the end of each brilliant deduction.

-What's going on?- Sherlock asked again.

John had no idea why Greg called him, or why he asked him to show up alone, with his medical kit, but he knew he had to find a plausible enough explanation to prevent the detective from asking any more questions.

-It's one of your homeless... You know some of them are still mad at you-

Sherlock stared at him intently for a long moment before nodding.

"Okay” he simply said.

John only needed that word to understand that Sherlock hadn't believed him.

Silently John nodded and went into their bedroom to quickly change and retrieve his kit, checking that everything was there, before returning to the living room and approaching the sofa where Sherlock was busy with his mobile phone.

"Listen, I promise to come back as soon as possible" John said, sinking a hand into Sherlock’s disheveled hair. - So maybe we can resume our conversation...-he added, bending down to put a kiss on the man's forehead.

Sherlock raised his head slightly, briefly meeting his gaze.

-Mh... Try to hurry and maybe I’ll think about it-

John flashed him a smile before heading to the door of their apartment.

Twenty minutes and a short taxi ride after, John rang the doorbell of Greg and Mycroft's apartment.

-So what was all the urgency? -he asked when Greg opened the door and let him into the house.

-Are you sure Sherlock didn't follow you?- Greg asked.

John frowned at that question.

-I hope so! It’s late, and I'd choke him with my own hands if he woke Mrs. Hudson to take care of Hamish just to come after me. What the hell happened to you? - John asked, following his friend down the corridor that connected the entrance with the living room.

-Hello! -

At the sound of the unknown voice, John moved his head around the room, staring at the young boy sitting on the couch.

Still with his brow wrinkled with surprise and confusion, John quickly glanced at Greg, asking him a mute question.

"Hello" John said, greeting the boy, then observing his old, poorly kept clothes, the thinness of the young man who denoted his malnutrition and especially his bruised face that made him understand the reason behind the late-night phone call.

-John this is Daniel, Dan this is the friend I told you about- Greg said making the introductions.

-Are you here for a threesome? -asked the boy.

-What?- John asked, trying to hide the embarrassment that those words had provoked.

-Stop being a jerk!- Greg said, berating Daniel.

The boy shrugged his shoulders carelessly and looked back at Greg, getting up with some difficulty.

-Too bad. So where do you want me?- he asked the inspector.

-In the kitchen... God forbid we get blood on the couch-Greg said making way for the two men.

Once in the kitchen John placed his bag on the table, then approached Daniel with a friendly smile on his lips, observing with a medical eye his half-closed right eye, his split lower lip, the scratches on his knuckles, quickly considering which words to use to make the boy let him examine his chest and abdomen without considering him a threat.

"Nice to meet you" John said, continuing to smile. "Can I take a look at your eye?" John asked him kindly.

-Be my guest- answered the teenage boy shrugging his shoulders, trying to hide a groan.

From the way the boy was favoring his left side while standing, John considered that Daniel must have at least one broken rib, moving gently his fingers closer to his right eye and softly touching his eye socket to check that it was not broken.

"Sorry" John muttered when a small lament came out of Daniel's half-closed lips, moving his fingers away from his right eye. -Can you open your eye for me, please?-

Slowly Daniel’s right eyelid lifted, showing a red iris of blood to which John pointed his light to control the pupil's responsiveness.

Satisfied with the corneal reactivity, John put the light back in his bag and focused on his lower lip.

"It's a pretty deep cut" he said, quickly looking up to meet Daniel's gaze. – Who did this to you?-John asked concerned.

"Some guy" Dan said.

-Are you going to tell me what happened? Or would you rather I take you to the station?- Greg asked him, meddling in the conversation.

The hint of a smile appeared on Daniel's lips, immediately broken by the pain of the broken bottom lip.

-It would be a different experience. At least I'd sleep on a real bed for a night-Daniel remarked.

-Okay. It was a stranger guy who did this to you; can I ask you why?- John asked again, cleaning the dry blood to get a clear view of the wound.

-Is there a reason behind wild violence? - asked Daniel, looking up to meet John's eyes.

-Oh, we have a philosopher here... - Greg commented clearly annoyed.

-I'm fine!- Dan said just as much annoyed.

-Obviously not if we're here to put your pieces back together!- exclaim the inspector, venting his frustration.

-Ok, why don't we all calm down?- John interrupted them turning to Greg and looking for his friend's gaze. - Why don't you go out and smoke a cigarette?- he proposed.

Greg stared at him for a few moments, clearly eager to add something, before stiffening his jaw muscles by exhaling noisily from his nose and nodding.

"Okay" he said before leaving the kitchen.

John took a deep breath, once again wondering how his perfect evening with Sherlock had turn into that uncontrolled chaos, only to bring his eyes back on Daniel and smile reassuringly at him.

-That was pretty cool. So, are you the famous boyfriend?- Daniel asked, a spark of amusement in his eyes.

-No, God, no! I'm his best friend- John replied shaking his head, back to work on Daniel’s lip.

-Is he really that dreadful? - asked the boy again after a few moments of silence.

-Who?- John asked, focused on his work.

-His boyfriend-

John let a nervous laugh go, in his mind the memory of the first words Sherlock had used to describe Mycroft.

-Where do I start? -

-You don't like him?- Daniel asked him clearly curious.

-No.. Yes... No…It's a long story-John admitted in the end.

_Long and complicated._

-Why don't you tell me what happened to you?- John asked, changing the subject.

Once again, Daniel shrugged his shoulders carelessly.

-A transaction ended badly: a customer wanted something, he got it, but eventually refused to pay.

I have to learn to make them pay in advance even if they are cute...- Daniel commented caustic -The oldest story in the world...-added with a hint of bitterness in his voice.

-Does it happen to you often?- John asked, putting needle and thread in his bag.

-You two ask the same questions, you know? -

The blonde smiled.

-I know, we're the boring ones- John commented without acrimony.

"That's not the word I'd use to describe you" Dan replied looking at the doctor.

This time it was John's turn to shrug his shoulders.

"Because, luckily for you, you didn't meet our interesting boyfriends" he replied with a smile.

Just then Greg returned to the kitchen, visibly calmer, both hands sunk into the pockets of his jeans.

-Coffee?- he asked the two men.

John nodded.

For a few minutes Greg worked with the kettle and the cups, fixing everything neatly, and then turning back to John.

"Maybe I overreacted" he simply said, enclosing his apology in those few words.

John shook his head and smiled.

-So, can I go back to work?- Daniel asked, preventing him from answering.

John turned to the boy and remained silent a few moments, his gaze fixed on Daniel's injuries.

-Well... Personally I would be against your "return to work" anyway, but as your doctor I exclude it: although I have not yet checked, I think you have at least a broken rib, your eye and lower lip are swollen, you have bruises and scratches on your face and your hands due to the fight.

I'm sorry Dan, but as a doctor, I highly suggest that you take a few days off-

-What?- Daniel exclaimed in disbelief- Are you fucking mental? -

-Would you rather wheeze on the side of the road because of a punctured lung?- John asked him in his firm voice that he used whenever Sherlock behaved in a childish manner.

"He's going to stay here" Greg said, anticipating the boy's response.

Both Daniel and John turned to stare at the detective, with expressions of disbelief almost identical on their faces.

-What?-

-What the fuck?-

Greg nodded, his gaze on Daniel.

-You need to rest, my fiancé is abroad on a business trip, I'm almost never home because of work... It's the best solution for everyone-he explained.

John nodded slowly, confused.

-Okay... Greg, can I talk to you alone for a second? -he asked him and then walked down the hall, forcing the inspector to follow him.

It was only when they arrived at the front door that John turned and pointed his ocean-blue eyes at his friend, wanting to know how long Greg had known the boy, how deep their knowledge was _(it was a horrible thought, especially with a friend,_ _but John could not leave anything unturned given Daniel's obvious "profession")_ what further motivation could be behind that proposal, and above all, how much of everything that had happened so far was already in a file color vanilla in Mycroft's hands.

-So, talk to me: what's going on?- John asked in a low voice.

Greg frowned.

-What do you mean? -

-You know what I mean: this secrecy, the boy; you didn't want to have Sherlock to come with me, so I assume Mycroft doesn’t know anything of this, or at least you hope he's unaware.

So I'm going to ask you again: what's going on?- John asked.

Greg stood silent for a few moments; his gaze fixed on the wall behind John before nodding slowly.

-Okay. It’s not what it might look like… I'm just trying to help him! Or would you rather I leave him on the street in those conditions? -Greg asked him trying to hold back the anger that clearly leaked in his voice.

John hurried to shake his head.

-No! Of course not... I can see that you care about that boy.

I would have done the same thing, you know that, but you know as well as I do that we are the boring part of the couple- John pointed out. -Our partners are two of the most insecure and low-self-esteemed men I've ever known... You saw what happened last week between Sherlock and that witness - John reminded him trying to prove his thesis.

Greg nodded.

-I dare not even imagine how complex your Holmes can be...

In addition, Mycroft is the British Government, despite what he wants the rest of the world to believe.

He’s the Big Brother Greg... So I strongly suggest that you talk to him about this as soon as possible before he finds out for himself- John pointed out, in his mind the memory of the first encounter with Mycroft and the ease with which the older Holmes had manipulated the cameras only to give him a demonstration of his power.

Once again Greg nodded.

-You're right. I know you're right- he said. - I promise to talk to him as soon as he gets back to London, but in the meantime promise me that you won't tell Sherlock anything about this-

John sighed, at the same time eager to help his friend but not inclined to lie to his boyfriend.

-I'm going to do my best. As long as he doesn't understand everything from the crease of my jeans-

____________________________

_What's going on between you and Lestrade? -SH_

_These are private matters that don’t concern you-MH_

_They became my problem when they start interfering with my private life-SH_

_Try to solve your problems as soon as possible-SH_

_Your interest moves me, brother dear. I'll fix the matter as soon as I return to London-MH_

__________________________

If there was one thing John Watson had learned to handle in years of living together, it was a stubborn Sherlock Holmes on a tantrum.

Many times over the years he had seen the genius man get angry for a nonsense or because of the prolonged absence of a serial killer "worthy of that name", so he had devised tactics to relax Sherlock and bring a smile back on the detective’s lips: tea was always a good choice, other times it was enough just a phone call to Molly asking the woman to find a poor corpse donated to science ready to be sacrificed to Sherlock’s enormous curiosity and intellect.

But this time the challenge was shaping up to be rather difficult considering that the fantastic genius was in that state because of John.

It all started two days before, when they were at Scotland Yard signing the report on the "Romeo and Juliet" case; to pass the time while Sherlock once again begged Lestrade for a real crime, John had taken a look at the newspaper, dwelling on the culture page and reading the article about the last foreign film that had won the Oscar and that had returned to the theatres.

Sally had joined him shortly after, and after seeing what had caught his eye, she confessed that she was curious and wanted to see that movie as well, so John had taken advantage of it and proposed to her to go see it together.

After recovering Sherlock and heading home, John had also extended the invitation to the detective, who had decreed the whole thing boring, getting angry at him when he found out that John had still made plans with Sally to see the movie.

-Stop sulking!- John told him for the umpteenth time, looking at the still man sitting behind his microscope, which was doing everything to ignore it.

"I'm not sulking" Sherlock said, with a petulant voice, without looking away from the slides under the lens.

-Yes, you are! You're sulking and you have no reason for it- John commented, checking in the mirror above the fireplace that his shirt was in order.

A slight noise behind him made him realize that his words had caught Sherlock's attention, enough to convince him to momentarily abandon his work.

-Oh really?- Sherlock asked, his voice dripping with sarcasm. -I might be a man who has no knowledge of the rules of dating, but even I can see the flaws in your reasoning!- Sherlock retorted.

John took a deep breath and turned to his partner, an affable smile to brighten his face.

"Go on then" he said, determined to indulge his boyfriend’s madness.

Sherlock stared at him for a few moments, unsure whether to grant him that satisfaction or not, before making a brief nod.

-As you wish... You've just started a relationship with a man, me-Sherlock started.

John nodded.

-That's right-

-A man who has not had a partner, be it a man or a woman, for more than ten years, and now that everyone is aware of our relationship, you decide to go on a date with another woman?- he asked, raising his voice on the last words.

John sighed in frustration.

-It's not a date! -John repeated for what seemed to him the thousandth time.

-It's dinner and movies with a woman!

Of course it's a date- Sherlock answered upset.

John shook his head, stepping into the kitchen without getting too close to Sherlock.

-This is where you're wrong! It is not a date because: 1) Sally knows very well that I’m with someone; 2) You were invited to come with us, but you decided not to come because you think the movie is boring- John pointed out patiently.

-It's a movie with subtitles, it's obvious it's going to be deadly boring! - commented Sherlock, determined not to back down in his convictions.

-It's a movie that just won the Oscar! It must be interesting... I want to see it, Sally too so we'll go together-John concluded taking another step towards the kitchen.

Sherlock glanced at him still distressed.

-What about dinner?- Sherlock then mumbled.

-You know I'm a gentleman, and I'm definitely going to be hungry after the movie.

Besides, Sally and I haven't had a chance to talk lately, so what better chance than this?- John pointed it out.

"I really don't understand why you want to spend time with her" he said.

-Because she's a friend! - John replied before letting go of a frustrated sigh before taking another step towards Sherlock. – Ok, listen... You have nothing to worry about, really.

For the first time in a long time I'm happy, really happy Sherlock.

I just want to go to dinner with a friend, have a laugh...-he said in a calm voice.

-You and I do all those things too! -Sherlock promptly replied meeting John’s gaze.

John nodded.

-True, but sometimes it's good to have a laugh for something "normal" instead of Anderson’s stupidity or the other Met agents; or go to dinner with a friend just for the sake of it instead of celebrating the end of a case-

-Have you forgotten your dinner at the Italian restaurant? There was no case to celebrate there- Sherlock reminded him.

Once again, John smiled as he decided to cancel the distance between them and stop in front of the detective.

-You were courting me. It was no ordinary dinner - he pointed out with an affectionate smile.

Sherlock snorted unconvinced, but when he felt John's fingers through his black curls he made no gesture to avoid that contact.

-Do you know what the best part of the whole night is?- John asked him, trying to meet his gaze.

-The wonderful movie you don't stop talking about?- Sherlock asked.

John chuckled and shook his head.

-No, it's knowing that once I come home, I'm going to find someone waiting for me. I'm going to find you and Misha-John said with an affectionate voice.

-Surely you'll find Hamish asleep- Sherlock commented.

John leaned slightly and laid his lips on the mass of black hair for a sweet kiss.

-But he's going to be here-

This time it was Sherlock's turn to sigh resigned, meeting the doctor's ocean-blue eyes and lacing an arm around the man's waist.

-Fine! Go and enjoy your boring movie and your boring night-Sherlock said before John's lips were on his.

The blonde kissed him slowly, enjoying that moment before pulling away and smiling at him.

John then finished preparing quickly, picking up his wallet, his mobile phone and his keys around the living room and finally putting on his coat, kissing Sherlock one last time before heading for the door.

-And don't forget to ask her about her new lover! -

In the end, the film fully confirmed their expectations: John was fascinated by the wonderful landscapes and slightly confused by the twisted plot and without a true logical thread almost as much as a novel by Joyce or Virginia Woolf and strengthened in the doctor the belief that Sherlock would have hated every moment of that film, ruining the show to the many spectators.

Three hours later, John and Sally sat relaxed at a table in an Indian restaurant, one of the best in the area according to Sherlock, waiting to be served.

-So, what's married life like? - Sally asked with a pleased smile on her lips.

John smiled in return, taking a sip from his beer.

"We're not married" he said.

Sally chuckled, covering her lips with the back of her hand.

"There was a time when you kept telling anyone who wanted to listen to you that you two weren't a couple" she recalled.

The smile on John's lips became brighter before he shrugged his shoulders.

-Well, at least we took a step forward-John commented temporarily bringing their attention to the waiter who at that moment stopped at their table.

-Anyway... It's all good, it's all as usual, except that now we know that we are a couple and we have an infant running around the house- John said between bites.

"Let’s not forget the added bonus of sex…" Sally retorted.

At those words the mouthful of chicken Tikka Masala went down the wrong pipe, making John cough several times, even after getting rid of the foreign body, in the grip of an unusual embarrassment.

Trying to avoid Sally’s curious look that John felt burning on his face, John took a long sip of beer, before being forced to surrender and meet her friend's hazel eyes.

-No way! You haven't...- exclaimed the woman in disbelief.

-Keep your voice down!- John immediately scolded her, acknowledging the symptoms of embarrassment in her voice and face.

-Why? - Sally asked sincerely curious.

John took a deep breath, trying to regain control of himself and exhaled noisily.

"It's been a busy few weeks, with Misha joining us and me leaving" he said sincere.

-Okay, but now you're together and believe me, from what I saw the other day, it's obvious that you're both dying to have sex- Sally commented almost ruthless.

John arched an eyebrow at those words, clearly incredulous, leading Sally to nod vehemently to remark her own words.

-Obvious? Really?- he asked her.

-You almost had sex in front of Anderson, what do you think?- she asked him.

_Mh... Maybe she wasn't wrong…_

Still John shook his head.

-It was just a kiss. And we were kissing in front of you because when he wants, Sherlock can be more stubborn than usual- he retorted.

-Definitely... Anyway, what are you waiting for? -

John sighed, reflecting on her question.

-We're taking it slow- he said.

-Honey, after five years you still feel the need to take it slow? I'd understand if either of you were a virgin, but...-

-I know, I know, it can seem absurd, especially given everything we've been through to get here and how intertwined our lives are.

It's just that... When we’ll have sex it will be the final step-John said to her looking at her with serious eyes. - From that moment on, there will be no more secrets, no more running away as soon as things get complicated... If we add that missing piece it will be forever- he told her trying to explain the motivations behind his choice.

_It was impossible to do things in half with Sherlock Holmes._

From the very first moment their eyes met, John had been sucked into a vortex that had constantly endangered him, but had brought him back to life, giving him a purpose again since his time in the Army.

Before long they had become roommates, inseparable friends, they had started sharing a bank account without either of them finding it strange and if they now took the final step, granting his intimacy to Sherlock (as he had been longing for years), he was certain that Sherlock would not have half measures, asking once again for his 100%.

Every little attention, every little touch from that moment would belong to Sherlock, forever, and before he took that step he wanted to make sure he wouldn't end up regretting that choice.

Sally, oblivious to the thoughts that buzzed in his mind, gave him a sweet smile.

-I think it's a little late for that, don't you think? -

John nodded slowly, unable to speak for a few moments, taking a new sip from his glass and focusing on his own food before giving her a friendly smile.

-Enough talking about me. Who's the lucky guy?- John asked her curious.

Sally frowned.

-What guy? -

"The one you're dating" John explained.

Sally chuckled, shaking her head slightly, before meeting his gaze.

-Okay, just to have some fun... How did you figure that out?- she asked.

-Your hair: you have paid special attention to your hairstyle, looking for something elegant, but not too eye-catching, and the same goes for your makeup, light but refined.

As much as I'd like to believe that these special attentions are for me we both know you love me, but you're not in love with me.

Also, it's Friday-John added. -The best day for a date, especially if you hope to drag it until late in the evening. Or even Saturday morning…-

Sally smiled in disbelief.

-That man is really rubbing off on you... - she commented without malice in her voice.

John hinted a mischievous smile.

-You have no idea... So who's the lucky fellow?- he asked again, sincerely curious.

Sally remained silent for a few moments, still undecided on whether to confess or not, before exhaling acquiescent.

-His name is Robert, he works with Special Operations, and we met by chance during a seminar a few months ago- she confessed.

-Social status? -asked John.

The last thing Sally needed was to start a new relationship with a married man.

-Single. Apparently the members of the Spec. Ops. are more likely to have a career if they do not have emotional baggage.

Also, I asked Greg to do a check to make sure he wasn’t bullshitting me- Sally added.

John nodded, satisfied with the information.

-Are you going to meet him later? -

This time it was Sally’s turn to nod.

"We are having a drink after our dinner" she confirmed.

-Isn’t he jealous that you spent the whole evening with me? -asked the doctor ironically.

Sally laughed.

-Please... Even rocks know that you are hopelessly in love with Holmes-answered Sally in a jovial tone.

John hinted at a smile at those words, without making the slightest attempt to disprove them.

-Okay, let's finish our dinner quickly. If we play our cards right, we might be lucky tonight- John said to her with a playful smile.

________________________

When John returned home, he found the apartment completely shrouded in silence.

From the small but bright light in the kitchen John could catch a glimpse of a long and ethereal body on the sofa, clearly asleep, which made him smile.

Trying not to make any noise, the doctor unbuttoned his coat and took off his shoes placing them neatly next to the door before moving into the living room; he curiously glanced at the kitchen noting the bottle used for the last feeding of the day abandoned on the kitchen counter, returning to focus his attention on the man a few meters from him.

If Sherlock was a force of nature when he was awake, as soon as he fell asleep he was the embodiment of serenity: Sherlock indulged in sleep so rarely that his rest was incredibly deep, impossible to disturb or interrupt with external noises.

John let his face open into a loving smile and took the few steps that separated him from the sofa, moving cautiously until he was lying as well in the small portion left free by Sherlock, his head on the man's chest and an arm wrapped around his narrow waist.

Enjoying the silence that surrounded them, John listened to the rhythmic sound of Sherlock's heartbeat, finding it as reassuring and melodious as a melody; that beat was something exceptional, it was proof that despite the constant insinuations to the contrary, Sherlock Holmes had a big heart capable of loving.

John had to be the luckiest bastard in the universe if among millions of more deserving people, Sherlock had chosen him.

Beneath him, the black-haired man moved in his sleep, unconsciously moving his arm until it rested around John's shoulders, and once sure it wasn't a dream, he rubbed a cheek against the doctor's hair.

"You are home" Sherlock said in a voice heavy with sleep, his eyes still closed.

_Home. _Was there a nicer word than that?

There, in their living room, in the arms of the man he loved, John Watson was definitely at home.

-I am- he whispered.

Sherlock rubbed his face with his hand, trying to fully wake up from his nap and opened his eyes, initially staring at the ceiling above him and then at John's blond hair.

-How was your night?- Sherlock asked him.

-The movie was interesting. But I think you would have found it boring- John commented, moving slightly so as to lay his head on Sherlock’s left shoulder so he could meet Sherlock's gaze.

"I knew it" said Sherlock, a small smile curving his lips.

John answered with an affectionate smile, caressing Sherlock’s chest with his hand.

-But I liked it. I think I'd like to visit Rome one day... Maybe you could find a decades-old mystery to solve- he said.

-Why would I leave London when I have everything I need here? -asked Sherlock sincerely curious.

At those words John's heart inexplicably increased his beats, impressed by the simplicity of his reasoning and the total honesty in Sherlock's voice.

_Are we all you need? Hamish and me?_

-I was thinking of a holiday- John said, to drive away those unusual thoughts.

-Mh...-

John put his weight on one elbow and rose slightly to meet Sherlock’s gaze.

-What about you? Did you miss me?- he jokingly asked him.

Sherlock rolled his eyes heavenwards.

-Terribly... I thought the world would end as soon as you walked out that door! -he replied with obvious sarcasm in his voice.

John laughed and put his forehead against the detective's shoulder, feeling the vibrations of Sherlock's low laugh, trembling pleasantly when a hand caressed his short hair and back.

The doctor raised his head and thus met the ice-blue gaze of the other man, staring at him for a few moments in silence, before licking his lower lip unconsciously.

-Well, I'm here now. What can I do to make it up to you?- he asked him.

Sherlock studied him for a few moments, looking for a hidden meaning behind his words, before raising his head just enough to meet John’s lips.

John lowered his head and kissed him, instantly adapting to the slow pace of the kiss, brushing gently against Sherlock's lower lip, letting Sherlock decide when and whether to deepen the kiss.

Moments or minutes later, the tip of Sherlock's tongue touched John’s upper lip, asking for more, and John did not hesitate to open his mouth and meet the detective's tongue, inviting him into a rhythmic dance that left both breathless in a short time.

Sherlock's nimble fingers stopped on his chest, quickly opening one button after another, showing off more of John's still slightly tanned chest.

Needing to catalogue every mole, every possible imperfection of the other man, Sherlock pulled his lips away John's and immediately went down the Adam's apple where his attention is captured by the scar on John's shoulder kissing it softly.

Feeling the warm and gentle touch of Sherlock lips on his skin John thrown his head back and moaned.

With an unexpected tenderness, Sherlock pulled off the fabric of the shirt from John’s shoulders, trapping John with the still buttoned cuffs, and focused completely on the observation of the scar: curiously it was starshaped, the tissues around the wound of a rosy color despite the fact that almost six years had passed since the accident, and scar tissue lines extended to the left pectoral.

Almost like an exploded nebula.

Unable to take his eyes off the wound, Sherlock touched it tenderly with the tip of a finger to get further feedback, but as soon as his finger touched the scar tissue on his shoulder, another moan come out from John's disclosed lips.

Sherlock immediately brought his eyes back to the man’s face, ready to apologize, looking for a way to fix his mistake, but the expression on John's face confused him: he had expected pain because of the sensitive tissues, but the main emotion on John's face was a mixture of embarrassment and lust and pleasure.

John swallowed and then met his eyes.

"After the accident, this shoulder became particularly sensitive" he said in a broken voice.

Sherlock's eyes widened at those words, looking at the man and wondering how he had not noticed it before.

John had always hidden his scar, partly because he considered it horrible, and partly because after seeing Sherlock's half naked and perfect body several times he knew perfectly well that he had no hope of matching it.

"No one knows" John said, almost reading in Sherlock’s mind.

-My…-John said to him before he cleared his throat. -My exes always found it revolting, so I always hid it- he explained, avoiding his gaze.

A wave of rage took hold of Sherlock, causing him to let out an angry grunt before bringing both hands around John's cheeks.

-I always said you surrounded yourself with stupid women!

This scar is spectacular! It's a sign of your courage and strength, it's... it is a sign of destiny.

If it weren't for that scar now you wouldn't be here and…-

John did not let him finish his speech, bringing a hand to Sherlock’s neck and pulling him closer for a kiss that encapsulated all his passion and those feelings that he still could not express.

His other hand rested on Sherlock’s chest, feeling the heartbeat of his heart throbbing incessantly under the skin; even that little touch provoked an unexpected reaction in Sherlock, making him moan softly and get even closer to John until his leg managed to tangle between John’s legs.

The pressure was slight, but enough for John to want more, so much more, making him move his hips and thus make Sherlock aware of his erection.

With quick movements, John grabbed the hem of the T-shirt Sherlock was wearing and pushed it upwards, throwing it the next moment somewhere on the floor of the living room, following the reverse path that a few moments earlier had taken the shirt with his lips, licking and kissing Sherlock’s protruding collarbone and the chiseled pectorals leaving his mark along the way on Sherlock perfect pale skin, kissing and teasing the brown nipples with the tip of his tongue until they were stiff under his lips.

Before he could move down to his abdomen, Sherlock gripped his blond hair and forced John to look at his face, making him gasp for a moment at the sight of a lustful Sherlock.

The detective pulled him on top of himself until their lips collide together again, in a kiss ruled mainly by their tongues and teeth.

\- Bedroom...- Sherlock ordered in a husky voice between kisses.

John smiled and stood up, grabbing Sherlock’s left hand and dragging him to the bedroom.

Resuming the kiss interrupted moments earlier, Sherlock focused some of his attention on freeing John from his shirt, now dangling over his shoulders, undoing his cuffs and letting it fall to the ground, then wrapped his arms around John’s waist, chest against chest for a few moments enjoying the mutual feeling of their bare skin for the first time, satisfied groans echoing in the room.

Once in their bedroom, John pushed lightly on Sherlock's shoulders until the man was seated on the edge of the bed; but before John could make any move, Sherlock's lips rested on the doctor's abs, mouthing the rib line, biting the soft skin of his navel before sinking his tongue into it.

-Oh, fuck... Sherlock…- John murmured, his head forward, his eyes fixed on that bush of curls from which he was unable to move his fingers away.

Sherlock opened his belt quickly and eagerly, the button and the zipper of John’s slacks following swiftly letting them fall around his ankles, before gripping the boxer band with both hands and, encouraged by the groans coming from John's lips, touched the rigid line of John’s erection with the tip of his nose.

Curious, Sherlock touch once again John’s stomach with his lips, placing small kisses on the line that would lead him to John's erection then, finally Sherlock pulled down John’s black boxers, looking at John’s cock: it was not the first time that they were in similar situation but every time they had succumbed to passion and they had hurried things eager to orgasm as fast as they could.

Now for the first time he could take his time and observe every little detail of _His_ John.

"I'd spend hours looking at you, cataloguing every little groan or shudder of yours" Sherlock whispered, looking up at John's face.

John swallowed loudly at those words, both excited by the honesty with which Sherlock was able to say such erotic things and terrified that to satisfy his scientific curiosity Sherlock would let him hanging for hours.

A mischievous smile appeared on Sherlock’s lips, making him realize that his thoughts were clear on his face even in that situation.

-Maybe another time...-Sherlock reassured him before lowering his gaze and taking John’ erection in a loose hold before moving his head closer and licking a slow, winding line along the entire length.

A choked groan came to his ears, and moments later five fingers gripped his hair.

John opened his mouth in a soundless cry and arched his head backwards for a few seconds, before looking back at the raven head frightened of missing any details.

As soon as Sherlock’s lips wrapped around the tip of John's cock Sherlock’s tongue lapped at the sensitive tip tasting the salty taste that was uniquely John before swallowing him down while his hand stroked what his mouth couldn’t reach; little by little Sherlock began to take more and more of John’s cock into his mouth until his nose was buried in the hair at the base.

Sherlock pushed down again until John’s cock was deep in his mouth brushing against his throat. He swallowed tightening his suction and feeling the rest of it throb. John’s fingers in his hair increased their grip, almost getting painful, without John making any hint of moving his hips towards Sherlock's mouth, appealing to all his willpower, enjoying every moment until Sherlock pulled his mouth away from his erection.

Meeting his lover’s ice blue eyes again, John bent over him to lay his lips on Sherlock’s full, swollen ones, sinking his tongue into his mouth, licking every hidden corner; one hand resting on Sherlock's chest, John pushed him slightly backwards ending their kiss, letting the other fell on the bed.

Sherlock smiled, despite his slightly red face, and propped up his elbows to watch John get rid of his pants and boxers annoyingly twisted around his ankles.

The next moment he was in front of Sherlock on the bed stripping him of his pajamas pants and boxers, then he straddled Sherlock’s hips to take time to give attention to one of John’s most preferred parts of Sherlock's body: his neck.

John licked Sherlock’s neck with his tongue, leaving some red marks behind him with his lips and teeth, making even more evident his desire to show the whole world that that wonderful and perfect man was His, lingering on the point behind the ear where he clearly felt the Sherlock’s scent, closing his lips around the earlobe and biting him almost forcefully when Sherlock's body arched beneath his making their erections collide, before laying his forehead against Sherlock’s right shoulder.

-You're the most beautiful creature I've ever seen... - he whispered, raising his head to meet Sherlock's gaze, his pupils fully dilated for desire. -And you're mine...-

With his hands planted on both sides of Sherlock's shoulders, John moved his hips, rubbing his body against Sherlock’s mighty and muscular one; the friction of his bare skin against Sherlock's was perfect, but never as the man below him: his black hair were unruly on the white pillow, his perfect lips were swollen for their kisses, and his face was flushed with desire; finally Sherlock’s long and naked body, in spite of their differences, seemed to fit perfectly to John’s.

John licked his lower lip immersed in his contemplation and Sherlock took that moment to pulled him in for a slow and passionate kiss; his long violinist fingers moving down along John's back, pausing only a few moments to trace the contours of the scar on John's shoulder, then down his back to John's butt, while both men moved in a languid and slow rhythm.

John turned his head slightly to stop the kiss.

-Do you have anything?- he asked Sherlock breathless.

-First drawer...-said Sherlock, licking his lower lip to capture John's taste.

John leaned toward the bedside table, opening the first drawer, stopping suddenly when Sherlock started to trace the contours of the scar on John's shoulder with his lips, following the scar tissue with the tip of his tongue.

-You like it... - Sherlock said, looking up at John's face.

John swallowed, a hand frantically searching for the lubricant, and met the ice blue gaze of the other man.

"No one ever found out... " he answered, regardless of the husky tone of his voice, his fingers finally clasped around the bottle.

Sherlock smiled naughtily.

-I wonder if this little stimulation is enough to make you come-

John return to straddle Sherlock's body and laid his forehead against his.

-I promise I will give you plenty of time for your experiments, but now I absolutely need to be inside you...-said John, staring in Sherlock’s eyes.

Sherlock passed his tongue over his lower lip, a naughty smile bending his lips.

-Who am I to deny you this wish? -

Their lips met once more, both unfolded in a smile, their tongues intertwined, while John carelessly opened the lubricant and squeezed a little into the palm of his hand.

-Lay down- said John.

Sherlock laid down on their bed, his head on the pillow and his legs open to give John enough space to move closer.

John’s thick fingers glided along the smooth skin of Sherlock's erection, brushing it distractedly and discovering it damp with precome, then overtaking the brown bush to caress the delicate skin that protected Sherlock's entrance, applying a slight pressure that led Sherlock to bite his lower lip and huff a groan.

John's fingers moved lightly around Sherlock’s entrance, gently pressing and testing its resistance, while capturing Sherlock's lower lip and gently sucking it, trying to distract the detective from that painful passage.

For his part, Sherlock melted into his boyfriend’s arms, leaving him in complete control of the situation, enjoying the attentions that he had been missing for so long, certain that John would never intentionally hurt him.

Sherlock’s hips went up to meet John's hand, chasing that fine line of pleasure that was clear in front of him but which kept escaping him, until John crooked his finger inside him, making him arch his back, lifting it almost completely from the bed, casting a howl of pleasure.

_-Oh... Please John..._ \- he murmured inexplicably with bated breath.

Before long, John managed to get three fingers inside Sherlock, moving slowly and carefully, until he knew that the man was ready.

Looking down, John quickly put on a condom and lubricated his erection and positioned himself in front of Sherlock's entrance, pressing gently until he slowly saw his cock sunk into Sherlock body.

Finally, his body was one with Sherlock's.

Sherlock’s long legs wraps around John’s hips and a moment later, his arms are around John’s shoulders pulling him closer; John felt his breath getting stuck in his throat, his body still to allow them both to adapt to the change, Sherlock's breath wheezing in his ear; moments or hours later Sherlock’s hips jerked upward letting John know that he could finally, _finally_ move.

As soon John's hips began to move back and forth, Sherlock clenched down where he felt John moving inside him.

-Fuck…- John gasped.

Ocean-blue eyes searched for ice-blue ones and caught them half closed, long dark eyelashes caressing his cheeks, while Sherlock’s teeth were busy tormenting his lower lip.

-S-Sherlock...-

Sherlock opened his eyes and moved a hand to John's jaw, raising his head just enough to press his forehead against his lover’s.

Putting Sherlock’s legs higher in his hips, John changed the angle of penetration just enough that the tip of his cock brushed against Sherlock's prostate with every thrust, causing the man to moan in pleasure, moving his body in accordance with John's thrusts.

John’s fingers pulled softly at Sherlock's sweaty black curls and in response to that gesture, Sherlock's long legs tightened around him, his heels against his buttocks, thus diminishing John's freedom of movement.

The weight of his body on a forearm, John moved his free hand down between their bodies, tightening it around Sherlock's painfully erect cock, starting to slide his hand from the base to the tip with quick strokes, circling the foreskin with the tip of his thumb every two to three strokes, tearing another uncontrolled groan from Sherlock's open lips, continuing at the same time to move his hips with an almost syncopated rhythm, in search of his own pleasure.

-Come on... Let me look at you. I want to hear you shout my name...-John said laboriously, his lips a short distance from Sherlock's.

Those few words, or perhaps the tone of his voice, were enough to push Sherlock off the cliff: Sherlock stiffened, his face wonderful in its ecstasy, his internal muscles tightened around John a moment before Sherlock screamed his name in a broken voice and came over John’s hand and stomach.

Completely amazed by the vision in front of him, John stood still for a few moments, helping Sherlock to fully enjoy that moment, before moving his hand away from the man's spent cock and focusing on his own orgasm, which made his ears buzzing and led him to move his hips again, almost drilling into Sherlock.

Still intoxicated with the pleasure he had just experienced, Sherlock recovered marginally from the tide of emotion that had run over him and with his arms wrapped around John's shoulders, their bodies pressed tight in every possible way, his forehead against John’s left shoulder and his face slightly hidden from John’s sight.

-Oh John... My John... My wonderful John...

The only love of my life... If you knew how much I love you- Sherlock murmured still confused by his orgasm.

John gasped at those words, moving his hips once, twice, three times against Sherlock before an intense fire reduced him to ashes and then let him rise from it like a mythological Phoenix.

Letting a subdued groan go, John continued to move his hips on the wave of his pleasure, gradually losing momentum, until he fell completely spent in the arms of the man beneath him, a cheek pressed against Sherlock's collarbone.

Moving with unexpected gentleness, Sherlock let himself go backwards until his head was again on the pillow, John's hot body against him, despite the sticky proof of his pleasure that was fast cooling between them.

After a long moment of silence their breaths returned to normal and John found enough strength to move his head until he met Sherlock's gaze: a peaceful and happy smile bent the man's swollen lips and John could not stop himself from kissing them lazily.

"I'm about to fall asleep" John said after breaking the intimate connection between their bodies and disposing of the condom, then laying down with his head on Sherlock’s collarbone and his arm around his waist.

-Mh… It sounds like a great idea-commented Sherlock, his eyes half closed, ready to succumb to sleep.

John would have liked to retort that they should clean up, that otherwise the next morning they would find themselves sticky and dirty, but Sherlock laced his arm around his waist and pulled him against his chest and a few moments later both were fast asleep.

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**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Songs:
> 
> -Love me tender- Elvis Presley  
-Drunk in Love- Beyonce & Jay-Z


	13. All of me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> -I know I'm not the ideal man to build a family with, but I promise you I will do everything I can, and the impossible if I have to, so that you always have everything you need and that you, Hamish are happy.-

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone!   
We have one more chapter before the end... are you sad as I am?  
I have two short stories, always in this universe: one is set before "Come what may" and the other one is set a few years after the end of "CWM".  
Would you be intrested in reading them?
> 
> For now, I can only thank you one more time each one of you that read, left kudos and a comment to this story... You are shining stars! <3
> 
> Enjoy the new chapter!
> 
> Love, Eva

Mycroft Holmes already knew what was waiting for him when he got home that morning.

Determined and detached as only his "colleagues" of work had seen him so far, the British official crossed the threshold of the apartment he shared with his partner in Marylbone.

A well-orchestrated unforeseen incident had called Gregory back to Scotland Yard that morning very early, leaving him free to implement his plan: today was the day when Mycroft Holmes ended the shameful relationship between the detective and that young boy.

He was aware that his partner would not be happy for his intervention, but a man of his stature and with his job could not risk being associated with the scum that at that time slept peacefully in one of the guest rooms.

Mycroft took off his coat and left, as usual, his umbrella and briefcase next to the small table in the hall, Mycroft made the short walk that would take him to his destination and, once in front of the door of the bedroom, he hesitated with his hand a few millimeters from the handle.

His feelings were in turmoil, which never happened before when he had faced personal issues.

But this situation was complicated and difficult to examine coldly: he still could not believe that a beautiful smile and a young body had been enough for Gregory to cheat on him, to jeopardize years of life in common, all their dreams of a future together.

The most logical solution would have been to confront his partner, inform him that he knew of his betrayal and ask him to leave their apartment.

A definitive break-up, just as he would have suggested if the matter had not concerned him personally.

But Gregory was different: he was at the same time his strength and his weakness, and although in those days Mycroft had tried to imagine a possible life without the detective, he had noticed that at the mere thought he felt breathless.

When did that transformation happen?

How was it possible that Mycroft Holmes, the "Iceman", had allowed a stranger, a perfectly normal man, to get under his skin so deeply that he could not even bear the idea of imagining a life without Gregory Lestrade?

He had become weak.

And it was precisely that weakness that suggested his modus operandi: he would continue his relationship with Gregory, of course after getting rid of the boy who had tried to take his place, and would generously forgive Greg, showing his magnanimous and gentle side.

But Mycroft will be ready to make him regret that little mistake in the future.

_Forgiveness does not necessarily mean forgetting._

With that conviction clear in mind, Mycroft turned the handle and opened the door of the bedroom, finding it slightly wrapped in the dim light.

Without any consideration for the body hidden by the duvet, he pressed the switch next to the door and flooded the room with light getting a groan in reaction from his "guest" moments later.

"Ah well, I see you're already awake" Mycroft said as he stepped into the room.

Still visibly sleepy, Daniel sat down with obvious fatigue, showing his bruises to the British official who, in the space of a few moments, catalogued his wounds.

Visibly surprised to find himself in front of a stranger, Daniel stared at Mycroft's face in silence, rubbing his sleepy eye.

-Here you are... Our mysterious guest-Mycroft said to him with a smile of circumstance.

The two stared at each other for a few more moments before Daniel opened his lips.

"You must be Greg's boyfriend" he said, his voice heavy with sleep.

Mycroft nodded slowly, without moving.

-That's right. And you are… - he asked politely before shaking his head- Actually, no.

Don't tell me. I know your name and I honestly don't care to know anything else-he added in the same frosty tone that several times had petrified Heads of State and Ministers.

Daniel shrugged, trying not to be intimidated under Mycroft's careful scrutiny.

The British official observed the young man's malnourished body (rejoicing briefly when he saw no marks on his arms that testified to the use of narcotics), his young face, his short brown hair washed recently, his deep and serious brown eyes.

-Mh... I can see a certain fascination in you, but personally I wouldn't be interested" Mycroft said with a slight vein of contempt in his voice.

"You wouldn’t know until you try" Daniel said, almost automatically.

"Thank you, but no thank you," Mycroft replied. "How about we talk business?" he asked, crossing his arms at chest height.

Daniel arched the eyebrow of his healthy eye, observing him with a suspicious look.

-What business? You just said you weren't interested...-Daniel said, but the next moment a slightly mischievous smile stretched out his lips- Ah, I understand... You're one of those who like…-comments clearly amused.

"Absolutely not!"retorted Mycroft vehemently, personally insulted by the idea.

Did that child really think he could use his tricks to seduce him? He clearly didn't have the faintest idea of the person in front of him.

-I have no interest in having sex with you-Mycroft repeated for the second time.

"So what do you want?" asked Daniel, curious and suspicious at the same time.

-That you put an end to your disgusting relationship with my fiancé-

For a few moments the boy stared at him almost as his words had come out in a different language than English once it left his lips, before frowning.

-There's nothing between me and Greg- said at the end.

Mycroft nodded.

-Of course.

Actually, I'm sure he'd say the same thing if I asked him the same question... But you see, I know the truth- Mycroft confided almost in a confidential tone.

-Oh, yes?- Daniel asked puzzled.

Mycroft had to acknowledge that the boy had great acting skills; perhaps on another occasion he would consider him for a position in one of the many ministries he dealt with.

-And what do you know? -

-As if Gregory could do something without me knowing... I know about your first meeting in that horrible alleyway, that Gregory offered you dinner that same night and that he let you into our house, shortly after I left.

On the one hand I applaud his choice for discretion, but on the other it was really a bad decision- commented as if it were a secondary thought.

"That's stalking, you know?" Daniel pointed out.

-Of course not! I check that nothing serious happens to him because I worry about him" Mycroft replied quietly.

-An elegant way to define stalking-

Mycroft sighed dryly.

-We're not here to discuss my relationship with Gregory.

My request is all too clear, so now it's up to you to tell me your price - Mycroft said to him, determined to close that matter as soon as possible.

Once again an incredulous expression appeared on the young man's face.

"My price?" he asked.

Mycroft smiled coldly.

-You are who you are, let us not sugarcoated our words; so I'm sure we can come to an agreement: tell me how much money you want to end your relationship with Gregory and I'll give it to you- he informed him.

For a few moments silence fall in the room, until an incredulous sound ran away from the young man's undated lips.

-Wow... You're one who goes straight to the point-Daniel murmured, slightly shocked.

-Why waste time on pointless chit chat? So, what do you want? -Mycroft asked again.

Daniel stared at the British official's long, stern face for a few seconds before pulling back the blankets that had so far hidden him partially from the other man's gaze and moved with difficulty until he sat down.

"Nothing" he said, turning his back to Mycroft.

"Come on, don’t be a child!" -commented Mycroft- Everyone has a price, you just have to tell me yours-encouraged him again.

Two equally severe eyes met Mycroft’s, reinforcing in him the certainty that in another life the young man would be a perfect secret agent.

-Oh, yes? So what's yours? What's Greg's?- he asked in an almost contemptuous voice.

Mycroft's facial muscles stiffened to that provocation.

"You don't want to mess with me" he warned. - I'll ask you for the last time: what do you want to disappear from Gregory's life?-

-Nothing.

Let me get dressed and I'll leave this house and Greg will forget about my existence- Daniel said standing up. - But I’ll do it just because I don't want to create unnecessary problems for Greg-

"And how am I going to know that you won't try to see him again or contact him?" asked Mycroft again.

-I've never done that! He gave me his number and it was Greg that came looking for me... But for what it's worth, I'll give you my word-Daniel concluded turning his back again to retrieve his clothes placed on a chair next to the bed.

Mycroft sighed impatiently to put an end to that unfortunate situation.

-Well...That will do - he murmured before turning around and heading to the door of the bedroom.

"They were right about you" Daniel said, causing Mycroft to freeze on the threshold of the room.

Mycroft turned slightly, looking at the pathetic figure trying to tuck his jeans without putting pressure on his right side.

"I'm sure they were" he said. -It was a pleasure meeting you- he added.

"No it wasn't" Daniel retorted.

"I agree with you, but the common courtesy requires me to say it-- agreed Mycroft.

-Fuck the common courtesy- Daniel said.

On that "enlightening" thought, Mycroft quickly turned away, leaving the room and moving towards his own office, honestly proud of how he had handled the situation and the speed with which he had found a solution to the problem.

Fifteen minutes later, the noise of the front door informed him that his unwanted guest had left the apartment, leaving his life and Gregory's once and for all.

It was only nine o'clock in the morning and it was shaping up to be a great day.

___________________________

Waking up after what had been the "night that had changed his life the umpteenth time", John would have expected a classic Hollywood movie awakening: a shy sun peeking through the windows, the distant chirping of the birds announcing the beginning of a new chapter of his life, the warm and strong body of his lover still asleep next to him under the covers, an arm around his hips.

But even before he was fully conscious, John remembered the difference between cinematic fiction and reality: instead of the gentle sun that lit up the room, Sherlock's bedroom was still shrouded in semi-darkness caused by clouds and rain that he felt falling insistently against the window panes; the harmonious song of the birds had been almost brutally replaced by the distant rumble of thunder to herald yet another rainy day in London, and the hope to feel Sherlock's strong body next to him was disproved the moment John reached out to the portion of the bed occupied the night before by the detective and found it cold and empty.

A man full of nervous energy like Sherlock would never have been able to stay in bed once he was awake.

Waking up quickly from dreamland, John moved into bed, moving the numb shoulder muscles that fiercely protested for the excessive exertions of the night before and that made him moan softly.

Returning still under the covers, his back against the mattress and his eyes closed, John took a moment to reflect on what had happened the night before and as soon as the memories returned to crowd his sleepy mind like vigilant dreams, the doctor smiled.

**Happy.**

He made love with Sherlock Holmes.

At last!

That thought had crossed his mind many times in recent years, both before and after their forced separation and, while in the past it was only a fleeting thought, an idea with which he would occasionally entertained himself, after The Fall had assumed the tones of nostalgia and regret, wondering each time what it would be like to hold the detective closer, to feel him tremble under John’s caresses and attentions.

And now he had had a chance to satisfy that curiosity.

As his brain became more alert, a vaguely mischievous smile appeared on the doctor's lips, followed soon after by a happy laugh that rang out within the four walls of the bedroom and which the man tried to hide in his pillow.

Inevitably, the thought returned to the conversation he had with Irene and the woman's complaints, further broadening his smile, turning it almost into a creepy grin.

Everything could be said about Sherlock's performance last night except that it was below average.

Sherlock was a volcano of passion hidden under a facade of calmness and indifference, capable of leaving you breathless with a single glance or with a touch.

Was it possible that John Watson knew some hidden tricks to ignite Sherlock Holmes' passion? Some tricks that even Irene didn’t know about it?

No. It wasn't about tricks or kinks.

Last night John had behaved exactly as he would have done with one of his conquests, with some important changes of course, but the same attention he had focused on Sherlock had been directed (and appreciated) so many times before in the past by different men and women.

There was just one explanation. And it was the simplest of them all.

**"_If you knew how much I love you..._ _"_**

Almost shunning those words, John sat on the edge of the bed, realizing for the first time the sticky evidence still vaguely evident on his stomach and, recovering his own dressing gown, walked to the door with the frosted glass that connected Sherlock's bedroom to the bathroom.

Once there, the sound of the conversation between Misha and Sherlock arrived at his ears, making him instinctively smile.

That's where the detective was...

He opened the water in the shower and got rid of his dressing gown, looked carefully in the mirror: his hair was a disaster, shot in all directions giving him an unusual punk look, on his cheeks he could see a slight hint of stubble, but his eyes were happy and alive as few times he had seen them in the last year.

He quickly observed the rest of his body, seeing the scratches on his shoulders and bites marks Sherlock had left in the hollow between his shoulder and neck, on his right side, and inside his left arm.

Smiling mischievously at the image of himself reflecting on the mirror, John quickly got into the shower, letting a satisfied groan escape when hot water flooded his back and shoulders, softening his contracted muscles.

Beneath that warm, soothing jet, John let his mind wander, reliving a few moments of what had happened the night before, but inevitably Sherlock's words rang out in his mind.

Was he sincere? John wondered, soaping his hair.

Ever since they had begun to contemplate the idea of a possible relationship between them, the detective had never hidden his feelings, surprising him every time and leaving him speechless, leading him to wonder how it was possible that such a rude and verbally crude man with the rest of the population could be so sweet and sensitive with him.

But he would never have expected a statement like last night's.

Okay, he had to consider the possibility that it were just words said in a moment of passion, considered John, again in front of the partially smeared mirror by steam, the toothbrush in one hand and the toothpaste in the other.

Even John, in the past, had let himself go to affectionate statements with his partners immediately after orgasming, and so he was well aware that at that moment the brain is so clouded that it does not know at all what is babbling.

But…What if Sherlock was sincere?

What if he took advantage of that moment when their defenses were completely annihilated to express feelings that frightened him, that he was afraid of seeing rejected?

What was John supposed to say in that case?

The doctor knew very well what and how deep his feelings were for Sherlock, but at that moment he felt that he had missed an opportunity to voice them: when the detective had made his statement, John's throat had contracted for the emotion of the moment and because of his impending orgasm, thus ruining the only chance he had to "declare" his love to Sherlock.

What was he supposed to do now?

Did he have to pretend nothing happened or did he have to brought it up?

With both hands resting on the edges of the sink John sighed deeply.

Perhaps even in this case, as with most aspects of their shared life, John should let Sherlock decide: he would follow Sherlock’s step, adapting to his decisions.

Sincerely reassured by that decision, John took one last look in the mirror before heading to the bathroom door and turning the handle.

The scene in front of him made him smile and warmed his heart.

Sherlock was sitting in his usual seat around the table, Misha sitting on his lap, a hard-plastic plate filled with half of the baby's breakfast and a cup of coffee for the adult not far away.

Misha's fingers were completely covered in baby food and the child kept bringing them to his mouth to suck breakfast out of his own hands, looking up each time towards Sherlock as if he wanted to make sure the man wouldn't scold him for the messy and creative way by which he was having breakfast.

"I see someone didn't wait for me to have breakfast" said John, taking a few steps in the living room in the direction of the kitchen.

Sherlock slightly moved his torso in the direction of his voice, a small smile on his full lips, watching him carefully as John stopped next to him and bent down to kiss Hamish's head.

-It seems that Hamish is not a morning person... He was in a bad mood until he had breakfast- Sherlock said, meeting the doctor's blue eyes.- Just like you-he added.

John smiled, glanced briefly at Misha, comfortable between the two men, before meeting the detective's gaze.

-Me and the rest of the world.

Only Holmes men can be active and snappy as soon as they wake up... Oh no, wait, not even the Holmes man I know - John said with a wry smile before approaching his partner's face for a quick kiss on Sherlock’s soft lips.

-Good morning-

Sherlock smiled under his lips and kissed him too.

-Good morning. Did you sleep well? -he asked him in that close distance.

-Like a baby.

Tea?- John said as he approached the electric teapot and automatically started preparing breakfast for both of them.

For the next ten minutes, John focused on tea and toasting bread, like it was a surgical operation of extreme difficulty; Hamish had meanwhile finished his breakfast and Sherlock had clean his plump little hands and face before putting him on the carpet in front of the sofa surrounded by his toys, then went to sit in his own armchair.

"I think we should talk about it; don't you think?" said Sherlock all of the sudden, almost resuming a speech interrupted earlier.

John, one cup in each hand, entered the living room and placed both cups on the coffee table at a safe distance from Hamish, before turning a curious glance to his partner.

-Mh... Ok- John simply answered, going back to the kitchen to retrieve the rest of his breakfast.

"I was thinking about it while you were still asleep, and I realized that there's only one possible solution to our problem" the detective continued, never looking away from his partner.

-Right... Ok I’m gonna ask: what's our problem? -asked John, sitting in his own armchair and leaning forward to retrieve his own teacup.

-It's simple: in eight weeks Baby Girl’s baby will be born and then she will still be homeless, but she will also have to take care of her daughter-began Sherlock in a practical tone, without expecting any reply.

-Sherlock...-

John had expected everything that morning except to address again that conversation; the last time he and Sherlock had spoken about the birth of that little girl, hard-to-digest truths had come to light,at least for John, and although the doctor had continued in those weeks to look after the girl and the baby’s health, John and Sherlock had not talked about it again.

-You took care of her during her pregnancy and formed a bond with the baby, perhaps unconsciously- continued Sherlock, the cup of tea squeezed in the fingers of one hand.

-I know... I remember our conversation well- commented John, fixing his breakfast plate on the coffee table and staring at his partner.

Sherlock shook his head slightly, stopping quickly his inevitable objections.

"Just listen to me for a moment!" he said.

Everything Sherlock had just said was true: John had formed a bond with Baby Girl and her unborn baby, almost without realizing it, driven above all by loneliness and the need for affection, toying with the idea of being able to convince the girl to entrust the baby to him so that he could raise her and take care of her.

It had been a foolish thought, but it had helped him overcome the days when Sherlock's absence made itself felt stronger, biting his soul and leaving him breathless.

In silence, John sustained the icy-blue look of his partner sitting in front of him.

-You're a man that people love from the first meeting and who cares about others: me, Hamish, Lestrade, your colleagues at the clinic... You even care about my brother, for some strange and inexplicable reason- Sherlock said, making John smile. - After the birth you'll be even more worried about the fate of Baby Girl and her baby-added.

-Anyone would be...- John commented, taking a sip from his cup.

Sherlock shrugged off at those words, while accepting a toy that Hamish was giving him to attract his attention and smiling at the child.

-I honestly don't know if I'd behave the same way if I were in your place- Sherlock answered.

Perhaps John could have believed him; perhaps if their relationship was only in its infancy or if John had not repeated evidence to the contrary, of the great heart that Sherlock hid behind a wall from the majority of the population and that only a select few had the privilege of seeing.

Perhaps he would have believed him if he had never seen him with Hamish, if he had not just seen the happy and proud smile that had been painted on his face to the little gesture of the child.

"But as I said, there is a solution to our problem" Sherlock said, bringing the focus of both men to the main topic.

"What would that be?"asked John, trying to hide his curiosity.

"I think we should take care of the baby" Sherlock said.

Sherlock had not even finished saying his sentence that John was already shaking his head forcefully.

-No, I won’t. Maybe you forgot our conversation...-

"Actually I remember it perfectly, and I tell you again that it is the only solution to the problem" Sherlock readily replied.

John frowned, openly skeptical.

"Let's hear: how did you come to this conclusion?" he asked, leaning forward, resting both elbows on his knees.

-Oh come on John, don’t make fun of both of us!

We both know that you were thinking of adopting the baby even before the last ultrasound, and I have already expressed then the reasons that led you to consider that option and frankly I would like to avoid repeating them again-Sherlock said to him without malice.

John stared for a few moments at his boyfriend before breathing deeply.

Lying would do nothing, not with Sherlock who was able to read his emotions and thoughts clearly on his face.

-Fine, you’re right. I've considered adopting the baby a couple of times while you were away.

But now things are different: you and I are a couple; we have Misha and I don't think adding another newborn to this crazy family is a good idea.

It's not the right time- John said with a sad smile on his lips.

All of them were more than valid reasons that led him to reject Sherlock’s idea, but a veil of sadness had inevitably accompanied his words and contaminated his smile.

"Why not?" Sherlock merely asked him, a twin frown on his face.

\- The right time will never come.

If we had followed that rule, Hamish would not be part of our lives now, but we chose to raise it together.

Our lives will always be too chaotic or too dangerous for a child, but we are a couple and we have already proven to be good parents, however absurd it may seem to the outside world.

I also think it would be a positive experience for Hamish to have a sister-concluded Sherlock standing up and cancelling the distance between them with three steps.

"Just like it was for you and me with Harry and Mycroft, right?" John asked with a wry smile on his face, watching as the man settled on the armrest of his red armchair, like an overgrown cat.

In response to those words, Sherlock snorted.

-The relationship with our brothers is complicated, you're right, but for all his flaws Mycroft has always been there for me, even though I've lost count of the number of times I yelled at him and told him to stay away from me.

As for Harry, she has been instrumental in your rehabilitation and I will be eternally grateful to her for it-

John moved slightly into his armchair so he could meet Sherlock's gaze and smiled, genuinely surprised by the kind words the man had just spent on two of the people he loved the least.

"It's the first time I've heard you say a kind thing about my sister," John said.

-And on your brother- he couldn't help but add.

Sherlock shrugged his shoulders again.

-There's always a first time... But Hamish and I will be forced to kill you if a single word of what I just said comes to Harry's or Mycroft's ears- Sherlock replied nonchalantly.

John laughed and shook his head before returning to settle down against the Sherlock’s side.

-I don't know Sherlock. Are we really considering this idea? -John asked him skeptically.

-You know I wouldn't tell you if I wasn't sure.

You also know as well as I do that the idea that Baby Girl can keep the baby is not practical and clearly impossible: Social Services would take the baby away from her the first week, if they ever allow her to leave the hospital with the baby.

After that, they will try to contact Baby Girl's family, but as soon as her parents renounces all responsibility for the baby, the little girl will be considered "adoptable".

We both know that 75% of families who choose adoption prefer a child under the age of two, so the child will not stay in the system for long, but as soon as she has found a foster family you and Baby Girl will be unbearable and devastated by regret and sorrow.

And honestly it's something I'd like to avoid if there's anything I can do to prevent it-concluded Sherlock with the same confident voice as ever.

John tried to hide from the detective's gaze and stared for a few moments at Hamish immersed in his own games.

"You talk like she's really my daughter" John pointed out.

Sherlock's long, tapered fingers surrounded his face, politely forcing him to turn around to make their eyes meet, giving him a slight affectionate smile.

-Because she is, John.

Just as Hamish is your son, this little girl is your daughter.

You were close to her during pregnancy, you took care of her and Baby Girl making sure there were no unnecessary problems or risks for mom and daughter...-

-I'm his doctor, it's my job-protested John.

-Then you should be equally attached to all the patients in your clinic instead you sigh with relief as soon as you step out of that door.

This case is different, it always has been and we both know it- Sherlock repeated it.

John sighed and rubbed his face with one hand, confused by his boyfriend’s words.

"I can't take the baby away from her" he muttered.

"That's not what I had in mind" Sherlock readily said.

"Then let’s hear it: what's your idea?" John urged him to speak, looking back at him.

-You will legally recognize the baby when she will be born.

We will talk to Baby Girl and promise that we will take care of her and the little girl: she is only seventeen years old and can still have a future if she wishes and if she has someone taking care of her.

She can go back to school, go to college, besides, she's not the first teenager to get pregnant at 16, so no one will care.

We're going to make sure that she knows that she can spend time with her daughter, and I'm sure that if we talk to Mrs. Hudson we're going to convince her to rent us 221C so we can turn it into a small apartment for Baby Girl for these last eight weeks of her pregnancy and for when she will be in London so that you will both be close to the little girl.

I'm sure we'll find a way to make things work...-Sherlock said slightly excited by his plan.

John stared at him for a few moments, in disbelief at how advanced and articulate Sherlock's plans were; hearing him speak it was almost possible to imagine that that idea was achievable.

-Wow... You've really thought a lot about this thing-

Sherlock nodded, his gaze fixed on John before a serious look appeared on his face.

"I know you heard me last night, even though you preferred not to say anything," Sherlock said, making John blush.

John lowered his head slightly.

As usual, his decision turned out to be the right one.

-I thought it was the emphasis of the moment. Something...- John tried then.

"Something that I didn't really think” Sherlock helped him.

A small smile turned upwards John's lips.

"You wouldn't be the first or the last man to make wonderful declarations of love after an orgasm" he said.

Sherlock remained silent, slipping the next moment into John's chair, settling into the small free space between John's armrest and body, and stretching his long legs on the doctor's thighs, an arm on the back of the armchair.

"So let's try it like this" Sherlock said, drawing John's attention- I love you, John Hamish Watson.

You knew even before last night; my words were just a confirmation- he said in a firm and confident voice.

John swallowed loudly and continued to stare at Sherlock's beautiful face unable to find a minimally adequate answer.

-I know I'm not the ideal man to build a family with, but I promise you I will do everything I can, and the impossible if I have to, so that you always have everything you need and that you, Hamish and the little girl are happy.

I want to spend the rest of my life with you, chasing criminals, raising our children, and letting you take care of my bruises and wounds while you complain every time for my recklessness- Sherlock continued getting a smile from John.

\- And when we’ll be too old, we'll retire in our cottage in Surrey where we can continue to be two grumpy old men that people will look at suspiciously for our past and my ugly character.

What do you say? Is it a good plan? -Sherlock asked at the end, his eyes alive and bright.

The smile on John's face got bigger, not at all upset or surprised that Sherlock had planned the next forty years of their lives, stroking a long muscular leg lazily abandoned on him.

-You forgot the dog-John jokingly scolded him.

Sherlock chuckled.

"I thought you'd changed your mind since Hamish crawls around the house most of the day" he said.

John shrugged.

"It could be great for Misha" he said.

The two men remained silent for a few moments and silence left John time to rearrange his thoughts and find the most suitable words to express his feelings.

-This isn't the first time you've declared your feelings for me, despite your self-proclaimed sociopathy.

I never did.

It's always been hard for me to talk about my feelings, even when my love for you is obvious, at least according to our friends- John said cautiously.

Sherlock looked at his face with a thoughtful expression.

-Ah... Yeah, quite right- commented making the doctor chuckle. - Listen, I don't need big declarations of love, mainly because they are not my style, but also because I can clearly read your feelings on your face, I see it in your gestures...- he added.

-Ok, but I'm sure you'd like to... I'm just asking you to be patient, and I promise you that over time I'll be able to say it out loud- John promised.

-There is no hurry- Sherlock reassured him, stroking the hair at the base of his neck.

"So, what do you say? Are we're going to have another baby?" asked Sherlock again, returning to the main topic for the umpteenth time.

John sighed.

-Oh God, I can't believe we're really thinking about…-

-Come on, John! You want it, I want it…- Sherlock said before leaning forward to pick up Hamish and place him on his legs, forming a human pyramid. - Even Hamish can't wait to become an older brother! -

The blonde's thunderous laughter rang out in the living room, making both Sherlock and Hamish smile.

The next moment John looked for his boyfriend’s ice blue eyes and exhaled deeply.

-Okay, let's do this! Let's talk to Baby Girl- John finally agreed.

The smile he had in response to his words was the most beautiful and luminous to ever appear on Sherlock's face and managed to remove any doubts remaining on John's mind.

_____________________

Taking a short break from work to change the clothes he had been wearing for 36 hours and to quickly check that Daniel was fine and that he needed nothing, Greg Lestrade put the key into the lock of his apartment.

Those days when the young man had been a guest in their apartment had been the strangest of his life: usually when Mycroft was away for a business trip, the big house they shared was even bigger and immersed in silence, leading him to prefer the perpetual noise of his office at Scotland Yard, despite the fact that the sofa was not at all comfortable.

Instead, in those five days, driven by the knowledge that Daniel needed him, he had made sure to go home every night at a decent time, bringing with him the paperwork he would otherwise fill in his office and takeaway for their dinner.

Although Daniel had continued to tease him with mischievous jokes and teases, they had lost much of their malice as days goes by, becoming a private joke between them.

Of course, Greg was aware that he had to inform Mycroft as soon as possible, in view of his impending return, but every time they spoke on the phone, his courage had failed, leading him to talk about trivial and stupid matters.

That night, though, he would tell him everything.

After all, he had done nothing wrong: he had helped a boy in trouble and was certain that Mycroft would understand and appreciate the motivations that had motivated him to make the choices he had made.

Greg closed the door behind him and the first thing that struck him was the silence he received in response.

Since his arrival, during the hours he was awake, Daniel constantly had the television on both to distract himself and to fight the silence of the empty house.

Is it possible that he was still in bed?

The detective entered the living room quickly but had to stop at the doorway when he saw the figure sitting comfortably on the sofa.

In all its calm beauty, Mycroft Holmes was sitting on the couch, a file on his legs and another on the tea table not far away, his mobile phone set up to the right of the latter ready to use.

Instantly aware of his presence, the British official looked up and stared at him for a few moments, reading every little emotion on his face, before a smile of circumstance stretched out his thin lips.

-Mycroft... You're home! -Greg greeted him with a thread of voice from which he clearly displayed disbelief at the situation.

-I don't understand why you're so surprised, my dear.

After all, I too live here- Mycroft answered him while a long and elegant hand closed the file on his knees.

Greg shook his head, trying to recover from the surprise and smiled at him, this time conveying the happiness he felt in having him home.

After all, it wasn't difficult: every time Mycroft left, a part of Gregory remained tense until his return, constantly anxious about his partner's fate.

He knew that the man was surrounded by capable and competent people (Anthea in the first place) who would give their lives to prevent something from happening to the British official, but Greg was never completely serene until Mycroft was home again.

-Yes, I know... I just didn't expect to see you!

You said you'd be gone for a few more days and... I'm happy to see you again- Greg said, quickly covering the distance between them and sitting next to his man on the couch.

The next moment he was in the man's personal space and his lips rested light on Mycroft's to show his love and to reassure himself that it was not a hallucination.

Mycroft briefly reciprocated the kiss, without excessive transport before placing a hand on Greg's chest, still covered in his grey raincoat, thus breaking contact.

"I missed you, you know?" said the detective looking at Mycroft’s face.

"Did you?" asked the other man, unable to control himself.

At those words Greg frowned slightly before seeing them as yet another proof of his partner's insecurity.

-Of course I did! You know I'm better when you're with me- Greg reassured him.

-Yes, of course. You must have felt very lonely in this big empty house- Mycroft commented.

That was the perfect time to address the "Daniel" topic.

Greg stared for an instant at his partner’s gaze, grouping ideas quickly, taking a deep breath.

-Actually... This time I wasn't completely alone- Greg started trying not to appear too hesitant.

-Oh…-

Greg nodded.

"I know I should have talked to you about it earlier, while you were still abroad, but in my defense I can only say that I thought I had more time to gather my courage and talk to you about what had happened- Greg continued.

-My dear Gregory, please don't go any further... I know everything- Mycroft interrupted him in an almost solemn tone.

Greg stared at him for a few moments, his forehead wrinkled in confusion.

-You know-

Mycroft nodded with the same solemnity and almost at the same moment Greg sighed relieved.

-God you don't imagine how relieved I am right now.

John had advised me to talk to you about it as soon as possible and I was desperately looking for the right words...-he quickly recounted before a serene smile stretched his lips.

\- For once your omniscience came in handy- he added, leaning close to his partner to kiss him on the cheek.

The next moment he was standing by the couch, full of energy, curious to know what Mycroft and Daniel would think of each other, unable to explain the strange agitation he felt at the idea of a possible disagreement between the two men.

"Okay, I just have to go in the guest room and wake him up, so you can meet him" Greg said, turning his back on the man.

"Unfortunately my dear, your guest decided to go his own way" Mycroft informed him, bringing the detective's attention back to him.

"What?" asked Greg in disbelief, his forehead wrinkled and a slight panic in his voice.

Daniel was gone? In those conditions? Had he gone crazy?

Mycroft nodded slowly, rising to his feet as well.

"We met a few hours ago and had a short conversation to get to know each other better, after which he realized that he had abused your hospitality and left" the British official said.

Now everything was clearer...

Greg rubbed his face with one hand and sighed.

-Oh Mycroft, what did you do? -

The man arched an eyebrow at those words, sinking his hands into the pockets of the corduroy pants.

-I don't really know what you mean, my dear- he retorted.

"What did you tell him?" asked Greg again, trying not to listen to the voice in his head yelling at him to find Daniel before it was too late.

-I just informed him that you wouldn't need his services anymore since I was... -

-Wait a minute! His services?- Greg interrupted him in disbelief.

No. It was impossible. It was definitely his fault. He must have misunderstood.

Mycroft took advantage of that moment of confusion to get away from the living room headed into the kitchen.

"Would you like a cup of tea?" Mycroft asked without turning around.

"What did you mean by his services?" Greg asked again, following him into the kitchen.

The British official took refuge behind the kitchen island they had in the middle of the room and grabbed the edges with both hands, staring at him with a serious and furious look at the same time.

-This naive attitude does not suit you, Gregory dear-Mycroft comment bitter.

If Greg needed further proof that his suspicions were grounded, all in Mycroft from his gaze to his posture, would confirm his fears.

"You were convinced that I was sleeping with him" he said shocked.

Mycroft sighed plainly annoyed.

-Why are we still here talking about that boy? He's gone and...-

"Am I right?" Greg insisted, his gaze fixed on the man he struggled to recognize.

A new determination appeared in Mycroft's eyes and his body stiffened further, giving the inspector a glimpse of the true British officer in his duties.

-All right, Gregory, let's do it your way.

If you want the truth I saw you- Mycroft informed him as if he were one of his subordinates and not the man with whom he had chosen to spent the rest of his life.

"You saw what?" asked Greg, his brow, now perpetually wrinkled.

-I saw you slip into that disgusting little alley the night you met; I saw pictures of you two having dinner together right after and...-

A tiny part of Greg’s brain, which is still rational, made him realize how painful those words were and how much in Mycroft's attitude, until then catalogued as furious and authoritarian, was actually hurt by something that had been tearing the man apart for several days.

But Greg couldn't heed those considerations, not when the implication contained in Mycroft's words hit him with the force of a punch to the stomach.

"And you thought this was enough to infer that I was having sex with him" he whispered.

Mycroft stared and nodded.

-It was the only possible logical explanation... If we consider then that the guy came to stay in our apartment as soon as I left- Mycroft continued undaunted.

-The only logical explanation... - Greg murmured in disbelief before the anger took over - It's a sixteen-year-old boy! – he yelled at him.

"He's a whore Gregory!" replied Mycroft with equal vehemence.

Greg nodded, clasping his hands in fists along his hips to control the tremor that shook him.

-Right..

So you thought it was enough to have a young, cute face and a nice firm butt for me, a policeman, to throw away my principles and my love for you and start fucking with the first guy who walked next to me- Greg said before meeting again the look of the man in front of him.

"Do you really have such a low esteem of me?" Greg asked then, unable to hide how much that situation hurt him.

Did the man with whom he had seriously considered spending the rest of his life really consider him capable of cheating?

In that case, the conversations had during those years had been for nothing, their plans for a life together were only fictitious ideas ready to collapse at the first problem like a house of cards.

-I didn't say that.

I just showed you the facts as you asked me- Mycroft retorts.

-Do you have a video where I'm fucking Daniel? -Greg asked him straightforward.

"Now you're getting unnecessarily vulgar" Mycroft accused him, turning his back on him to walk into the living room.

-You don't have it, do you? I'll tell you why: it's not because of the incompetence of your subordinates, but because it never happened!

You can sift through every corner or sheet of this house and you won't find a trace of that boy's sperm.

If you were so suspicious, why didn't you pick up the phone and ask Sherlock to investigate? Oh no, just your image would have come out weak.

Do you want to know what really happen? Call John and ask him a few questions about Daniel, he'll give you all the information you want- Greg concluded, turning his back on him and heading down the hall leading to the front door.

-Gregory...-

The sound of footsteps behind him forced Greg to turn around again.

-I can't believe an intelligent man like you fell into his own trap.

You only saw what you wanted to see... This would be the best day of Sherlock's life if he found out-Greg commented vicious.

-Then explain.

Tell me what really happened- Mycroft said, letting the anxiety about the outcome of that confrontation shine through for the first time in his voice.

Greg shook his head.

-No, not now.

If you want to excuse me, now I really have to go: in your "justified" and absurd jealousy, you threw out back on the street a boy with two broken ribs and high risk of lung puncture and since I do not want to have his death on my conscience, I absolutely must find him- Greg said to him turning around again and taking the house keys from the little bowl where he had abandoned them just before.

"Wait a minute" Mycroft said.

-NOT NOW MYCROFT!

I don't want to talk to you right now... Believe me, you wouldn't like it at all if I stayed here and discussed this again with you - Greg warned him staring at Mycroft for a few moments with angry eyes.

Mycroft stooped still in the middle of the corridor and for the space of a second their glances met until Mycroft nodded before seeing Gregory disappear through the door of their apartment, wondering if he would ever see him return.

_______________________________

The silence that followed his long and articulate speech was deafening.

After making his decision and discussing the details further with Sherlock, John had left the Baker Street apartment and set off to the place where he was most likely to find Baby Girl and Boss.

Once there, he had performed the routine checkup to make sure everything was going well and that there were no unexpected changes or problems.

It was only then that he had exposed Sherlock’s idea to Baby Girl.

John had spoken at length in a calm and reassuring voice, exposing the idea in an articulate and exhaustive way, leaving no room for doubt, always with a smile on his lips to prove to Baby Girl that there was no hidden trap or agenda and that his words were sincere.

Once his speech was over, however, both the girl and Boss stared at him in disbelief, without saying a word, as if they expected him to continue his speech.

But basically what else could the doctor add to what he had already said?

To him, his words had seemed like a promise to take care of the little girl and Baby Girl, but at the same time the girl may have interpreted his speech as beautiful and useless words behind which to hide the intention of wanting to separate mother and daughter.

-Please tell me what you're thinking... - John asked her to break the silence that became every minute more oppressive.

Baby Girl stroked her belly with one hand, gently, almost without noticing it before meeting the doctor's blue eyes.

"I'm confused" she admitted, the words a murmur that John could barely hear.

In order not to make her feel lonely or uncomfortable, John reached out and gently squeezed the girl's little bony hand, giving her a reassuring smile.

"Believe me, I was too, when Sherlock talked to me about his idea this morning" he said.

"You want my little girl?" asked Baby Girl, the confusion clear in her gaze.

-No, I don’t. Yes... Oh God! -John blurted out just as confused before lowering his gaze on the hand that still held the girl's one.

The silence fell again upon them as the doctor rethought the conversation he had that morning with his partner and the valid motivations Sherlock had found to convince him that it was not a utopian dream.

-Sherlock and I want both you and the baby.

I know it sounds strange...- John said, looking at Boss who had been silent since the beginning of that conversation.

\- A child needs her mother, it doesn’t matter if she has a few hours or six months or six years, and we both know how much you love this little girl and how many sacrifices you made for her.

Nowadays there are not many teenage girls able to overcome all the hardships you have faced...-continued.

-I'd do it again - Baby Girl interrupted it, the voice safe.

John nodded and gave her a calm smile.

-I know... That's what makes you special.

And that's why Sherlock and I would like to give you back something you gave up to carry on your pregnancy: a family, the certainty of having someone by your side, a future... For you and your little girl-

-Boss is my family now- Baby Girl answered without hesitation.

John nodded again and looked again at the man standing close to them and listening carefully at their conversation.

-I know, and I'm not asking you to end your friendship with him, but to make room in your life for two more people... Actually three, considering that Sherlock and I have a nine-month-old baby- John confided them.

-What? – asked Boss surprised.

John smiled and nodded.

-Yes. His name is Hamish and his arrival was a surprise to both me and Sherlock-he told them looking once again at Baby Girl.

-I don't know what to say Doc...-replied the confused girl.

The doctor nodded slowly and reflected on what he might say to help Baby Girl. Now that Sherlock had opened that Pandora's box his feelings were all too clear, but John couldn't let them distract him from the girl and her situation: John wanted to raise that little girl with Sherlock, he wanted her to be part of their crazy family, but at the same time he wanted to give a future to Baby Girl, to make sure that she understood the motivations behind their gesture and did not feel excluded or even worse she did not consider herself the mean to achieve their purpose.

Up until that point he had told her how they had explained their plan, but perhaps it was time to show their more human side.

-My first ever memory is my mom singing me a song – John said, keeping his eyes on Baby Girl's little hand.

It wasn't easy to talk about his mother.

The guilt that he carried inside for not being with her in the last moments of her life still burned even though years had passed and John was convinced that that pain would never fade completely.

His memories were in a happy corner of his mind, guarded jealously, fighting the passage of time and the lack of new stimuli that led him to forget small details as the years passed.

\- Her voice, the sweet and reassuring way she had to hold me in her arms.

She was a kind and petite woman, more or less my height, but when it was necessary she was able to show a fistful of iron and a strong temper- John added, raising his face to meet Baby Girl's attentive gaze and give her a sweet smile.

-She died a few years ago, while I was still in Afghanistan, but not a day goes by without even thinking about her, especially now that I've become a father.

I'm telling you this because I want you to understand that now, after Hamish's arrival, I've become as protective and fierce as my mother.

I would do anything to protect my son, and for that reason I would never dream of separating you from your little girl; you will need each other from the first moment they put her in your arms for the first time.

All I ask you is that you make room in your life for us too- he told her.

Baby Girl made to speak, a distressed expression on her face, but John shook her head gently, giving her a reassuring smile.

-You can take the weeks until the birth to reflect and decide what to do.

I just want you to know that whatever your decision is, we will be by your side, that you will decide for or against our proposal I will still be your doctor and I will take care of you for the rest of the pregnancy.

Whatever happens it will not change anything, I promise- John soothed her in a firm and affectionate voice.

Baby Girl nodded imperceptibly.

"Will you promise me?" she whispered.

John smiled at her and stroked the back of her hand with his thumb.

-I promise you I will stand by you and Sherlock and I will respect your decision.

Do you promise me you're going to think about it? -

Baby Girl nodded again, suddenly thoughtfully, and John stood up.

When John made to untie the hold that had so far joined him to Baby Girl to talk quickly with Boss before returning home, the girl increased her grip, causing the doctor to frown and bend on his knees so that she would meet his eyes.

Baby Girl, however, avoided his eyes for a few moments, raising her head and looking for the reassuring presence of Boss who until then had stood by her in silence without ever meddling, aware of how important the conversation was.

The man and the girl had a silent conversation for a few moments before Boss nodded imperceptibly, leading Baby Girl to do the same and then turn to John.

"I don't think I'll ever be able to put into words the love I have for my little girl" she began, feeling John's watchful eye on herself.

-I've never seen her and yet she's the best thing that's ever happened to me, despite all the problems I've overcome in my pregnancy.

The last thing I want is for her to be a spoiled child, as I was before she arrived...- Baby Girl commented with the hint of a smile on her lips that also infected the doctor. - I want her to be kind to everyone and polite and that she always knows, at all times, that she is surrounded by people who love her and who will always be by her side-

John nodded, trying to control the heartbeats of his own heart that had gone mad about the hidden meanings of Baby Girl's speech.

-I want her to know who I am. - Baby Girl added.

-You will be an integral part of her life.

She's going to need you... I mean, Sherlock is a genius, but even he won't be able to do much when he finds himself in front of a teenage girl with love problems- John said to her with a smile.

Baby Girl licked her lower lip with the tip of her tongue, before taking a deep breath.

"I thought of a name for her" she said.

-Did you? –

Baby Girl nodded.

-Hope-answered the girl looking at John.

The smile on John's face increased considerably.

"I couldn't have chosen a more suitable name" he said.

Once again, Baby Girl's gaze sought Boss's, standing next to her, and when the man nodded for the second time, the girl sighed.

"You promise me that you will take care of her?" she asked, with a mature voice that contradicted her young age.

-As if she was mine- John solemnly promised her.

For the third time in the space of a few minutes Baby Girl nodded, a sense of purpose in her gesture.

-Then we will do as you said- she said.

Instantaneous tears began to press into the corners of John's sky blue eyes, leading him to lower his head as if he wanted to hide from the sight of the two homeless, his lips undone by a sigh of relief that he had not noticed having held back until that moment, taking time to absorb Baby Girl words.

Soon he would become a father for the second time.

_Oh dear brother... You made a big mess this time-SH_

_You're even more insecure than I thought if you thought Lestrade could do something like that –SH_

_Why didn't you ask for my help? –SH_

_I don't need your help. Nor that of anyone else –MH_

_________________________

When the front door of the Marylebone’s house opened again it was now evening.

Mycroft had spent those hours in his studio, trying to occupy his mind with the many files he had carried with him in his briefcase, but he surrendered when he realized that his concentration was focused elsewhere.

He thought back several times to the unpleasant conversation he had had with Gregory, trying to take a detached view of the matter, as if he were a stranger who had found himself witnessing the bickering between two lovers.

He observed the expressions of Gregory's face, catalogued the emotions that changed rapidly in the man's deep voice as the conversation went on, and, ultimately, recalled the looks his partner had cast on him and discovered them laden with disbelief, sadness, pain and anger.

Was it possible that he had imagined everything?

Impossible, the evidence was there in one of the many manila-colored files that crowded his desk and the British official had spent hours studying those photos trying to capture every little and more hidden meaning.

Though... That morning even the boy had appeared surprised by his insinuations, almost on the verge of bursting to laugh to his face at his words.

Mycroft had rejected those thoughts, calling himself an idiot just for considering believing the word of a hustler boy.

In the end, he was forced to give in to his curiosity and called John, asking if he knew anything about the boy.

After winning the doctor's resistance and reassuring him that it was Gregory who gave him the "permission" to contact him, John had let himself go and told him what he knew, causing all of the man's irrefutable convictions to collapse.

While John briefly summed up how Daniel and Gregory had met and what prompted the detective to take him in their house, Mycroft had remained silent with his eyes closed, as if he wanted to escape from his own mistakes and stupidity.

He had ended the phone call by thanking the doctor and for a long time had stared at the wall in front of his desk, reflecting on how a misjudgment had compromised a years-long relationship based on trust and love.

Mycroft initially thought of calling Gregory and offering his help in finding the boy, but then realized that the offer would not be well accepted, especially considering the way the man had left the apartment.

He just had to wait and think about what words to use to be forgiven by Gregory.

Unfortunately, he had not yet come to any solution when, still in his studio, the noise of the front door opening came to his ears.

Mycroft rose with grace and speed and made his way to the living room but did not let his anxiety and relief shine through when the inspector returned home.

Gregory appeared in the living room and, for the second time that day, was surprised to find Mycroft there; but if that morning an affectionate smile had stretched out on the man's lips, now the weary face of the detective remained tense and closed.

"You're back" said Mycroft, reading on the man's body the hours he spent searching for the boy and the hours of frustrating waiting spent on a hard-plastic chair in a waiting room in a hospital.

Gregory nodded, looking away from him.

"You have found your lost boy” said the British official, unable to bear the tense silence between them.

He would have been able to accept the yells, the furious arguments, even the objects thrown against the walls instead of that silence.

-Mh…- Greg simply said.

Mycroft let out a small sigh from his disclosed lips.

"Gregory, please talk to me" he said, ignoring the pleading vein that had accompanied his words.

Greg sank his hands into the pockets of his pants and threw his head slightly back.

-I don't really want to, right now. I just came back to get some of my clothes.

I'm going back to my apartment- he informed him.

Mycroft heard it clearly when his heart lost a beat, picking up faster the next moment.

Gregory was leaving.

He couldn't do it! Didn't he know Mycroft needed him almost like oxygen to breathe?

He had to stop him, he had to make him understand how vital Greg really was to him.

"This is ridiculous!" Mycroft retorted, surprising himself.

Attack is the best form of defense... He couldn't explain it better.

His words were followed by a bitter laugh, as Greg looked down at his shoes for a few moments before staring hard again at him.

"I just spent the last three hours in a waiting room at the hospital hoping that Daniel would get through surgery, that the doctors would be able to save him, blaming myself and you for what had happened to him" Greg said, clearly thinking cautiously to every word.

-I did what I thought was right at the time-

It was a mistake, a bad mistake, but now Gregory had to give him a chance to make up for it.

After all, it wasn't the first time in their relationship: Mycroft made a mistake, Gregory was angry, he held a grudge for a few hours (or for a few days), but then they always fixed it all.

Greg sighed in frustration.

"Do you really want to talk about it now?" he asked, his eyes ready to throw lightning bolts.

"If not now, when since you seem ready to give up our relationship for a stupid misunderstanding?" asked Mycroft.

He instantly realized that he had said something wrong when Greg's face was transfigured by an unexpected coldness.

It was wrong, it was all wrong!

He was the cold, cynical one of the couple, not Gregory! His Gregory was the most accommodating and affectionate person he had ever met (except for John), he could not allow all that was good in his boyfriend and in their relationship to be wiped away because of one mistake.

-Did you really believe that I was fucking Daniel?- Greg asked in a detached voice, as if he were working to caricature him.

-Gregory…- whispered Mycroft looking down.

"ANSWER ME!" the detective urged him.

Mycroft nodded.

-Yes, I did-

-Is that why you kicked him out despite being well aware of his physical condition?- asked Greg again.

Once again Mycroft nodded.

"Then there was no misunderstanding" Greg replied, turning his back and heading to their bedroom.

The British officer shook his head slightly, as if he had to recover from his partner's words before following him to their room where Gregory was throwing some clothes into the trolley in the middle of the bed.

"What should I have done?" Mycroft asked, again feeling that pleading vein that was an accompaniment to his words.

-You should have talked to me! As I did when I had my doubts about our story... But no, you decided to step over me and make the decision by yourself for both of us.

What did you expect me to say when you told me that you knew about my hook-up?- Greg asked him, stopping by the bed with a shirt in his right hand.

Leaning on the doorstep of the room, one hand against the door handle to support some of his weight, Mycroft shrugged.

-I thought... I don't know what I thought...-he commented.

"Oh yes, you did" Greg promptly retorted.

A sad smile stretched out Holmes’ lips: no one knew him like Gregory.

"I thought that after I informed you of the boy's departure, I would inform you that I was aware of your "mistake", but that I had decided to forgive you...-

"How generous of you" Greg said caustic, closing the suitcase and grabbing it by the handle.

-Gregory please...-

With quick steps Greg stepped out of the bedroom again, overtaking Mycroft again in the doorway, before suddenly turning to the man.

"What would you do if it had been Sherlock?" Greg asked, taking him by surprise.

At those words Mycroft halted, unable to breathe, to move, unable to cope with the mental image that those words had shown him.

-W-what?- Mycroft said, unable to complete the sentence.

"What would you do if I had done to Sherlock back then what you did today?" Greg asked again but did not give him time to answer before continuing. -He was a junkie, he lived on the street... What would you have done if he had asked me for help, with the same injuries as Daniel, and I had sent him back on his way? -

There was only one answer to that question.

"I would have never forgiven you"

Greg nodded.

"Now you finally see the situation from my point of view" he said.

Yes, now he understood his point of view, but that definitely didn't help him get better or give him a clue on how to fix their problem.

The next moment Greg had turned his back on him again, this time directed to the front door.

After a moment of hesitation Mycroft hurried to follow him down the corridor, unable to accept that a misjudgment could end their relationship.

"So it's over?" Mycroft found himself asking unable to hide the tremor that shook his voice.

Greg stood by the entrance cabinet and partially turned to him, an equally suffering expression on his face.

"I don't know" he said in a whisper.

"I can't think right now. And it's not Daniel's fault, at least not completely, but because I can't think that it was so easy for you to doubt me and believe that it was so easy for me to cheat on you with the first cute guy walking down the streets.

I thought my love for you was obvious, that you knew how much I love you and how much I respect you... That I would never do to you what my wife did to me...

But apparently I was wrong- Greg said grinding his teeth and forcefully clenched his fists.

Mycroft stepped forward to comfort him, but Greg straightened his back and exhaled noisily.

-I have to go back to the hospital-

The next moment he walked to the front door, leaving Mycroft alone with his own thoughts, his own ghosts and a large empty house.

___________________________________

When John returned home, the living room was shrouded in silence, but from the ajar door of the bathroom the now customary noises of the evening bath came to his ears and made him smile.

After stripping off his coat and taking off his shoes, the doctor placed the takeaway bag on the kitchen table and walked to the bathroom, slowly opening the door.

Sherlock was sitting on the floor, on his knees, a dozen bath toys placed a short distance away on the floor, both arms in the tub, one committed to supporting Hamish's back and the other to rinse the soap that covered Hamish’s belly.

For his part, Misha was busy splashing as much water as possible around him by slamming his palms on the water's surface, not worrying in the least about his dad getting quickly drenched by his side.

"Have you decided to stay by the door for much longer?" asked Sherlock without turning around.

John smiled.

"It seems like the wisest choice given the conditions in which Misha has reduced you- John commented as he approached the tub and set on the floor in the far corner.

-Just because I let him... We are committed to testing the theory of Archimedes-replied the detective, removing a damp curl from his forehead.

John chuckled.

"Maybe you should explain the experiment to Misha one more time, maybe he was distracted the first one..." he pointed out, making a funny face to the child.

"You're in a good mood" Sherlock said, looking at him with his peripheral vision.

The smile on the blonde's face reached his ocean-blue eyes making them even more beautiful and Sherlock was pulled into John’s stare.

As soon as their eyes met, John shrugged his shoulders, always smiling.

"It took you one look to know Baby Girl's answer to our proposal" John replied.

-That’s true, but this isn't a potentially interesting murder. It's something that will completely change our lives and I want you to tell me- Sherlock said it serious.

John approached him, heedless of the wet floor that socked his pants instantly and placed a loud kiss on his lips before searching again for his boyfriend’s ice-blue eyes.

-We're going to have a little girl, Sherlock-

The smile he received in response was the most beautiful he had ever seen and would have seen for the rest of his life.

And just as the detective had predicted a few moments earlier, those few words took on new meaning and completely changed the lives of the three men in the apartment.

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	14. Something good

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Perhaps I had a wicked childhood  
Perhaps I had a miserable youth  
But somewhere in my wicked, miserable past  
There must have been a moment of truth  
For here you are, standing there, loving me  
Whether or not you should  
So somewhere in my youth or childhood  
I must have done something good"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone!   
This is the last chapter of this Fiction... I hope you had fun reading it, as much as I had fun writing it and traslating it.  
Thanks to every single one of you who read it, comment it left kudos or booked marked it.  
Enjoy the last chapter and let me know what you think!
> 
> Love, Eva

Deciding to expand their new family had been easy, one of the clearest decisions in Sherlock Holmes' life: less tormented than the decision to make known his feelings for John and less shocking than hi resolution to take care of Hamish.

For the first time in his life, Sherlock had conscientiously chosen to take care of another human being, although this was not yet born, allowing her to occupy a place in his life.

Less simple, however, had been to define the legal details surrounding the matter and that would prevent anyone in the future from taking the child away from him and John.

Although they had entered into a verbal agreement with Baby Girl this was only partially binding and did not protect them from the possibility that one day Baby Girl could decide to take back the child.

John would be devastated, and the only thing Sherlock couldn't bear was witnessing John's pain without being able to do anything to relieve or prevent it.

So while John and Mrs. Hudson were busy modernizing the apartment C of 221 Baker Street and taking care of Victoria respectively, Sherlock had gone to great lengths, seeking a binding legal solution that would prevent anyone from separating them from the little girl once she was born, going so far as to put aside his pride and demanded Mycroft's help.

His brother, although his problems with Lestrade made him more unbearable than usual, had proved useful for once and presented him with the ideal solution: an open adoption.

Sherlock and John would become the child's adoptive parents at birth, or at the time Baby Girl would sign the adoption papers, but at the same time they pledged to maintain a relationship with the girl thus informing her of the baby's progress, sending photos or brief reports in which they gave her a brief account of what was going on in her life.

But since the two men were unconventional also in this situation, both John and Sherlock had decided to maintain relations with Victoria by going beyond the monthly reports and photographs, agreeing with Mrs. Hudson for the rent of apartment C in favor of the girl until she wanted to use it or her life choices would take her elsewhere.

In addition, Mycroft, at Sherlock’s request and unbeknownst to John, had set up a small fund in the girl's name so that she could get back on her feet and resume her studies and the older of the Holmes brothers had proved useful in this case too thanks to his high-flying and snobbish acquaintances: the man had only had to make one call and exchange a few pleasantries for Victoria to be assured a place in the London Marylbone College for the last year of high school and then at Cambridge or Oxford (depending on Victoria's personal tastes).

In the eight weeks leading up to the baby's birth, Sherlock worked hard to prove to John and the few skeptics that they still didn't believe in his good intentions that this was what he really wanted.

To better prepare for the baby's arrival, one afternoon Sherlock put Hamish in the baby carrier and together they went and went shopping returning three hours later with an entire new born baby wardrobe and a few specialized books on pregnancy, childbirth and the first years of a child's life(only the best books, although after reading a few chapters, Sherlock convinced himself that he could do much better).

There were still times when he felt out of his comfort zone and insecure, on the verge of paranoia ready to convince himself that he was unable to take care and love another child.

But then his gaze met John's and his mind stopped running at three thousand miles per hour and the rational part of his brain reactivated reminding him that he was not alone, that he had a partner and that for some absurd astral conjunction John had decided to spend the rest of his life with him, even choosing to build a family together.

It was in those moments that he understood that he could overcome everything, any adversity or problem, if John was by his side.

Eight weeks had passed quickly, giving them only time to arrange their apartment and Victoria's at C 221 Baker Street, taking care of Hamish, solving the most interesting cases that Lestrade had proposed to him (the fact that they were parents did not rule out that they were still two adrenaline junkies), and allow John and Sherlock a few hours of total intimacy.

It all changed one morning in mid-July when Victoria interrupted their morning routine made of tea, toast, newspapers and Hamish with the announcement that it was time to go to the hospital.

Within moments there had been panic, with John continuing to go back and forth from the living room and their bedroom, his mobile phone against his ear to warn the hospital that they would be arriving soon; Mrs. Hudson, who appeared magically at their door, said comforting phrases to Victoria to prevent her from slipping into terror and Sherlock balancing Hamish's weight against his right side, rushed into the bedroom to retrieve the bag with all the necessities for the little girl who had been lying to the left side of the bed for two weeks now.

After entrusting Hamish to Mrs. Hudson's care, the two men and the girl had jumped into a taxi and had rushed to the hospital, where a nurse had taken Victoria into custody and had driven her and John past the sliding doors behind which was the maternity ward.

When they had addressed the subject of childbirth John had clearly expressed a desire to be with Victoria, to be there the moment their little girl came into the world.

Sherlock understood that need and, although a part of himself shared that wish, he was aware that it would not be a practical solution and that he would almost certainly infuriate the nurse, risking being thrown out of the delivery room.

It's was better to stay in the hallway and avoid causing any problem.

That's why, after clutching Victoria's right shoulder one last time in what Sherlock hoped was a reassuring gesture and exchanging one last look with John, Sherlock stopped walking next to a row of white hard-plastic chairs watching the couple disappear quickly behind the sliding doors.

Thus began a long and very boring wait.

Initially Sherlock tried to distract himself by deducing private lives and not of the people sitting next to him, but his mind was evidently elsewhere.

An unexpected relief came when, three hours later, the altered figure of his brother appeared in front of him.

Mycroft looked around for a few moments before laying his eyes on his brother, a knowing smile of circumstance framing his face.

-Ah, dear brother... - Mycroft greeted him.

"What are you doing here?" asked Sherlock. "Who told you we were here?"

Mycroft raised a perfectly styled eyebrow and looked at Sherlock with an amused expression.

-Really, Sherlock? You must be truly nervous to ask such a stupid question-Mycroft commented slightly entertained.

Sherlock shrugged his shoulders, straightening his back so as not to show himself weak in his brother's eyes.

"My stupid questions are perfectly justified today" he replied.

Mycroft remained silent for a few seconds, observing the man's rigid posture, noting his nervousness and impatience, before speaking again.

"How's the girl?" he asked him without any particular interest.

-She's fine. Or at least as far as possible when the biological imperative of your body is to push out a five-pound infant- answered Sherlock.

-How's John? -

-Worried.

He won't walk away from Victoria's bed until the baby is born, or at least until he's sure they're both fine-

"How is Hamish facing the change?" asked Mycroft.

Sherlock let go of a frustrated sigh.

-Damn it! What is it, an interrogation? Why don't you find yourself a cake or a war to take care of and leave me alone? -blurted the younger man.

At those words, Mycroft pressed his lips in a thin line to hold back the amused smile that threatened to alter his facial expression.

-Heavens... You're really nervous, little brother...-

Sherlock stared at him for a few moments in silence before crossing his legs in an elegant gesture that horribly annoyed the British official.

-You, instead, are all too calm considering you've lost the love of your life. And in that way…- teased Sherlock.

Mycroft instantly stiffened at Sherlock’s words, unable to mask the effect that even the smallest hint at Gregory and their situation had on him.

-I'm not here to talk about...-

-I need a cigarette.

Do you want to come with me? -Sherlock interrupted him by standing up with a fluid and incorporeal movement that Mycroft greatly envied him.

The two brothers stared at each other for a moment, just enough time for Mycroft to clearly understand the true meaning hidden in the detective's words: if the two men would indulge in that little transgression, Sherlock would take advantage of it for a rare moment between brothers, perhaps expressing his opinion on Mycroft’s relationship with Gregory.

If Mycroft had decided to pull back, Sherlock would have done nothing to convince him, letting him go his own way and smoking his cigarette alone.

The eldest of the Holmes brothers, however, had always been a player: strong of his knowledge of the human being he could always catch the small signs that his opponent shown, exploiting them to take advantage of them.

He was a risk-taker. But only if it was a calculated risk.

That's why he moved next to Sherlock's left side and let the younger man guide him to the exit doors with measured steps.

"John would be very disappointed if he found out about your transgression..." Mycroft commented.

Sherlock shrugged his shoulders again, exiting the automatic doors of the hospital and settling a short distance from the door under a protruding shelter.

-We are about to become parents for the second time in a year, he will not pay any attention to a cigarette smoked between brothers- Sherlock commented pulling out the half-empty package of Lucky Strike and pulling out a cigarette.

In turn Mycroft took his Pall Mall Light package from an inner pocket of his coat and took one, then leaned slightly towards the small flame of the lighter to light it.

For a few moments the two men remained silent, one enjoying the long-denied pleasure of nicotine and the other casually observing the passage of ambulances in the large forecourt.

-I never wanted to be a father-

Sherlock's deep voice broke the silence and forced Mycroft to bring his gaze back to his brother's face; the detective had his eyes fixed on the forecourt in front of him, watching the rain falling thickly on the pavement, his nervous fingers fiddling with his cigarette.

"As if I didn't know" the British official said, trying to express as much irony as possible in his voice.

It's was true, Sherlock had never wanted to be a father.

Even when he was put before the reality of his fatherhood by Hamish's arrival Sherlock had tried in every way to get out of it, looking for someone else to entrust that huge responsibility.

Yet in less than three months, the man who shunned relationship and feelings had become a father: from the earliest days he had found a way to relate to Hamish and had learned to care for the child, quickly forming a strong emotional bond with him.

What initially seemed like a burden had turned in to an unexpected gift in a few days.

-To be honest, I always believed that I would die before I was 30- Sherlock confessed.

"No one knows better than me that you have done everything to achieve your goal...-Mycroft murmured shunning memories of a past never too far away.

Sherlock turned slightly towards him, resting his shoulder against the wall and pointing his ice-blue eyes at his brother's face.

-But I didn’t... And then John first and then Hamish came along and now this little girl...-

"Are you trying to prove something, dear brother?" the British official interrupted him.

Sherlock stared at him for a few seconds before throwing his cigarette butt on the wet ground.

-You and I know that I don't deserve everything I've achieved in my life.

But now that John, Hamish and soon this little girl are part of it, I'd be ready to do anything for them.

Anything- Sherlock said with confidence.

Mycroft nodded slowly.

-I am aware of this Sherlock- Mycroft replied with equal seriousness.

His brother chose to get close to few people, driving away most people with his erratic behavior, but once the initial resistance had passed, these chosen few secured unconditional devotion and affection.

"When Hamish arrived at Baker Street, Lestrade had promised John to take care of me during his absence- Sherlock started again, taking away from his thoughts- At that time you two had some problems... - he added.

-Sherlock... – Mycroft warned him.

"Your current situation is connected to what happened at the time" the detective continued undaunted.

"Do you want me to believe that you and Gregory had a moving conversation about your feelings?" asked Mycroft sarcastic trying to change the subject.

Sherlock shrugged.

-The conversation about my relationship with John was over and Lestrade had no mention of leaving-

-I’m sorry to contradicted you, brother mine but Gregory and I at the time talked about our problems and found a solution, behaving like adults-retorted the other man still sarcastic.

Sherlock let go to an amused grin.

-Wrong.

You didn't fix anything.

Lestrade let you win because he didn't want to lose you, in fact I'm surprised you still haven't figured out what the real problem is in this whole mess- Sherlock said, analyzing his life as he would have done with that of a perfect stranger.

Mycroft tightened his grip around the handle of the umbrella and stiffened his back and shoulders muscles.

-There's no point in talking about it, don't you think? It seems that my relationship with Gregory was destined to...-Mycroft commented doing his best so as not to bring out the pain that those few words caused him.

Sherlock let a frustrated sound slip from his lips, pulling his head upwards and staring into the cloudy sky for a few moments before turning his flaming eyes back at the British official.

-Oh, please! Stop! Why don't you stop telling yourself all this bullshit and start thinking? -he yelled at his brother.

-What do you expect me to do? He cheated on me!

Do I have to remind you how you behaved when you met one of John's "one-night stand"? Mycroft replied, equally angry at the impertinence shown by his brother.

-That's different.

That was John. And we are talking about two different matters- Sherlock said.

-This is Gregory.

How do you think I felt when I saw him with that boy? -Mycroft asked him, letting a hint of his feelings for the inspector leak into the expression of his face – Actually, I think I said too much about this matter.

I’d better leave...-he started by fixing the lapel of his coat and preparing to open the umbrella to fight the drizzle.

"He wants to have children, you bloody idiot!" exclaimed Sherlock, unable to hold back.

Mycroft froze, shocked by those few words, the fingers of his left hand still clenched around the lapel of his tailored coat, an incredulous expression on his face, unsure whether or not to believe his brother's words.

Could it be that Gregory confided such a private thing to Sherlock?

-You know as well as I do that Lestrade has not cheated on you even if you are trying in every way to convince yourself to the contrary...-

-How do you know that?- Mycroft asked, without knowing which of the many questions buzzing in his mind was the most important.

-I saw it. And Lestrade confirmed it to me.

It all started when we were together at Manor, when Emma was with us and it became even more obvious when Hamish came into our lives.

You would have noticed if only you had paid a little more attention-Sherlock commented.

"Why didn't he say anything?" asked the British official.

Sherlock stared at him frowning for a few moments.

"Do you want children, Mycroft?" he asked.

"Don't be ridiculous! "retorted the other man promptly, almost upset by that simple insinuation.

A slight smile stretched out Sherlock ‘s full lips.

-Here's your answer.

Lestrade at the time decided that your relationship was more important than any possible heir and shelved his desires of fatherhood- he explained briefly.

"Then he met the boy...”

In the light of that new information all that had happened, the events that had led to their separation, seemed to have a new meaning: to motivate Gregory's behavior and actions was no longer lust or desire to feel desired, but the need to help a clearly distressed boy... a boy who could easily have been his son.

Mycroft swallowed noisily, feeling the weight of his mistakes fall once again on his shoulders.

_How could he be so stupid?_

-I see you've got your brain up and running again.

Lestrade is like John: neither of them has ever received the memo that caring is not an advantage.

If you ask me, sometimes they care too much- Sherlock commented.

Mycroft again looked over his brother's face and allowed him to read all the inadequacy and remorse he felt at the time.

"What would you do in my place?" he asked.

"I would impose my presence on him 24 hours a day, seven days a week, as long as he is at such an exasperation point that the only way to get rid of me will be to confront me and talk about what happened" Sherlock said.

Mycroft shook his head slowly.

"He's going to hate me" he said.

-Maybe. But hatred is still better than indifference.

You fucked up, dear brother, but for some strange reason Lestrade loves you and surely right now he's as miserable as and worse than you.

You just have to find a way to remind him how good you were together...-Sherlock commented letting his own sarcasm come out.

"Any idea?" asked the British official, for once in his life ready to accept guidance.

Sherlock let himself go to a bored sigh.

"What are you willing to do for Lestrade to forgive you?" he asked.

-Anything- Mycroft answered instantly.

Sherlock nodded.

-Then you're going to have to make some compromises.

I will tell you what I said to Lestrade: you have to decide if your wishes are more important than your relationship with Lestrade.

Make your choices and move accordingly-

The eldest of the Holmes brothers stared at what, between the two of them had always been the most problematic, the most in need of attention and care, unable to take responsibility and become an adult, and for the first time found himself before a grown man.

When did that transformation take place?

How did he not notice the small changes that had turned the petulant man-child into a "responsible" adult?

"Since when did you become an expert on interpersonal relationships?" Mycroft asked, unable to hide his shock.

Sherlock hinted at a smile and shrugged.

-It's weird, I know. But after all, it's not the first time that love has led me to do weird things- Sherlock commented before turning slightly towards the automatic doors a short distance away to cast an inward glance.

He had given himself too long a break.

"I have to go back inside" he informed him, looking distracted at Mycroft.

"Have a good day, dear brother, and try not to start a war on the way from the hospital to Scotland Yard" Sherlock said, before walking towards the entrance.

His shoulders relaxed, his hair gently caressing the collars of his coat, and an inexplicable smile bending his lips.

For the first time in years Sherlock had behaved, having a normal conversation with Mycroft, giving him advice on his relationship with Lestrade.

If nothing bad had not happen so far, it was the sign that nothing bad would happened that day.

_____________________________

When his divorce from his ex-wife was formalized, the bachelor apartment that Gregory Lestrade had found a short distance from Scotland Yard had appeared to his eyes as the perfect apartment: a small but functional studio apartment, with a bedroom, a bathroom, a small sitting room and an even smaller kitchenette.

But unlike the house he had shared for years with his wife (in which she would continue to live and which Greg would have paid for for many more years), those four walls were his kingdom: no one would scold him if he forgot to lower the toilet seat or if in his fridge the only protein food was the bacon for his breakfast hidden behind the multiple takeaway boxes, or even if due to tiredness the clothes of the day were on the chair next to the bed in the urge to slip under the covers and let go into the arms of Morpheus.

Now, however, a small problem had arisen.

What until a few years ago had seemed like a palace, now had an almost claustrophobic effect on Greg.

For the past eight weeks, the inspector had had to share the small space with Daniel who, since their arrival, had settled on the couch, and had spent his recovery in the living room, burning brain cells with idiotic talk-show.

But the boy's presence was somehow a small consolation as Greg was aware that if he found himself completely alone in the apartment he would probably go crazy.

What annoyed him was not finding himself living in a studio apartment again, or having to think about most of the household chores as well as having to deal with the paperwork and the various cases that took him around London chasing madmen, criminals and Sherlock too but the knowledge that, despite everything, he missed Mycroft terribly.

During the years, Greg had lived through weeks of living alone when the man was out for work for most of the working week or, if Mycroft was abroad, for extended periods but always had the comfort of the objects around him: Myc's books, his clothes, even his aftershave in the bathroom cabinet if loneliness bit too hard.

His bachelor apartment, on the other hand, was completely and deliberately devoid of anything that could made him think about Mycroft.

_Like if he needed an object to think about Mycroft..._

Not a day had passed in those eight weeks when Greg had not thought of the British official, analyzing their last conversations, thinking back in his mind of Mycroft’s body language to understand what his true emotions were, what he was feeling at that moment under the mask of the firm detachment behind which he always hid.

How could that idiot man think Greg was capable of cheating?

Didn’t Mycroft know that Greg considered Mycroft his all world?

Until eight weeks earlier Greg was certain that Mycroft Holmes was the One: the person he would spend the rest of his life with, but in light of the latest events Greg was no longer sure about it.

Even if he could forgive him for that mistake (as he has almost done in the past eight weeks), no one assured him that in two or three years they would not find themselves with the same problems they had now, facing insecurities and doubts that never really went away.

Was it better to end their relationship now?

Every time that thought ran through his mind; Greg shunted it almost frightened.

Despite their misunderstandings and problems, the idea of ending their relationship and going back to the impersonal and detached relationship of the early days made him shiver.

Besides, there was Daniel's problem.

Pretty soon the boy would fully recover and leave the apartment to never return, ready to resume his “work”.

Greg had tried in every way to convince him to stay with him, looking for an alternative solution to the problem, certain that once Daniel found another job, which would keep him away from his old life, Daniel would agree to stay at the apartment and start a new life.

But unfortunately so far he had only received bad news.

His work, however stressful it might be, was his only consolation.

Focusing on someone else's much more serious problems and trying to solve a crime could always get all the other thoughts out of his mind.

The paperwork that crowded his desk had become a blessing!

He definitely needed help...

While John and Sherlock were in the hospital, waiting for their little girl to be born, Greg was stuck in his office signing some reports and reviewing others from his team when someone knocked cautiously at his office door.

-It’s open – Greg answered without looking up from the file he had in front of him.

Greg distractedly heard the door of his office open and shut behind the mysterious visitor, but when he heard no request and did not see a new file fall on the messy pile that cluttered his desk he looked up and found himself facing Mycroft Holmes in all its splendor.

The eldest of the Holmes brothers was dressed as usual in a wool three-piece suit, the expected umbrella clutched in his right hand and perfectly shiny Italian leather shoes.

In Greg's eyes he was just gorgeous.

For a few moments Greg was afraid of not being able to control himself and of climbing over the desk that divided them in order to stand in front of the man and put an end to that separation that lasted too long, holding Mycroft in his arms and hiding his face in the warm space between his neck and shoulder.

However, rationality took over and in his mind the veiled accusations of the man resounded, reminding him why it had been necessary to separate and why after all this time Greg had not yet been able to forgive him.

"Hello Gregory" Mycroft said, clearly embarrassed under the detached mask he was wearing at all times.

Greg answered with a nod, not trusting his voice.

"I didn't want to interrupt you, but one of your agents recognized me and let me through" he said, nervously moving his fingers on the handle of the umbrella.

The inspector returned to lay his eyes on the file still in front of him on the desk.

-Mh... Someone just earned a week of desk work- Greg commented, quickly signing the report and taking a new file.

-If you are busy, I can leave... – Mycroft proposed.

Greg shrugged, trying to be indifferent despite wanting to extend that moment for a few more minutes.

"Do whatever you want" he replied.

Fortunately Mycroft was not fooled by his indifferent tone of voice and sat on a chair on the other side of the desk, remaining silent for a long time.

In the long moments of tense silence that followed, Greg tried to focus on the report he had before his eyes determined to show the man that their separation had not affected him in the slightest, that he was still able to do his job with a lucid and focused mind.

He wanted to show Mycroft that at least he had failed to destroy him at Scotland Yard, as he had done in his personal life.

But all he could think of as the words of the report danced confusedly before his eyes was how the presence of man in his office had brought back a kind of balance between these walls, or how the smell of his aftershave (always the same from the first day their paths had crossed) slowly erased the smell of shoddy coffee that hovered in the air.

"How's the boy?" asked Mycroft, breaking the silence.

Greg put down the pen in his hands and sighed, biting his lower lip to hold back the sarcastic response that had instinctively risen to his lips.

-Better.

He has fully recovered and he’s anxious to return to work-commented unable to hide a bitter vein in his voice.

"Will you let him?" the British official asked.

The detective shrugged and tried, once again, to show indifference.

-I'm not his jailer-

"_Only_ _his lover..._ " Greg thought bitter.

-You tried to contact a group home or...- Mycroft proposed.

"Mycroft" Greg stopped him, finally looking up and staring at the other man's face, forcing him to stop talking.

The two men stared at each other for a few moments before Mycroft nodded slowly, opening and closing the grip around the handle of the umbrella.

-I apologize-

In the brief moments that followed, Greg was able to observe Mycroft closely, noticing the dark circles under his blue eyes, the unexpected thinness that could be seen under the tailored clothes and the tense muscles like he almost expected at any moment to be struck.

Once again the detective sighed and wearily passed a hand through his hair, messing them up.

-I tried to contact some people I know in the System to help me out, but they confirmed to me what I feared: with his criminal record it will be difficult to find him a job so I better not keep my fingers crossed- Greg explained.

"What about Social Services?" asked Mycroft, elegantly crossing his long legs.

The inspector shook his head.

-I cannot request Social Services help, because he has never been convicted.

Put simply, I have to send him back on the street and wait for him to commit a crime, hoping that it will be a petty crime so that he can request their intervention thus avoiding him ending up at Pentonville.

What a bunch of bullshit…- Greg said, before he hid his face in his hands.

"Can I do something to help you?" Mycroft asked, after a few more seconds of silence.

Greg took a deep breath and raised his face from the hiding place of his hands and shook his head.

-No, you can’t. I think you've done enough- Greg said unable to hold back.

For a thousandth of a second on Mycroft's face appeared a wounded expression, a look that would have escape anyone who was not expert in reading the complicated non-verbal language of the Holmes brothers, but that brief moment was enough for Greg to regret his words.

He had been deliberately cruel.

Before he could apologize for his words, Mycroft's face recomposed and the British official nodded.

-I stole too much time from you. I leave you to your work- Mycroft said standing up with the grace and elegance that distinguished both brothers.

Greg watched in silence as the elegant figure approached the door of his office, ready to leave his life without him being able to say or do anything to stop him.

-You have no idea how much I hate Sherlock right now-

The British official had his back turned from him, his hand resting on the door handle and his gaze fixed on the white door in search of inspiration.

\- The man who never cared for anyone, the self-proclaimed sociopath has a partner.

A family.

He even gave me advices on how to manage my relationship with you...-Mycroft added, a sour tone in his voice.

Greg found himself smiling in spite of everything: if Sherlock had exposed himself to such an extent, that meant that he really cared about his brother and a little bit about him too, and also that he did not want to see their story end for a stupid misunderstanding.

A misunderstanding that had done more damage than an actual betrayal...

"Just because he found the only person who could stand him and share with him his whims and his madness, someone who is willing to spend the rest of his life with him" Mycroft added.

\- Mycroft...- Greg interrupted him not knowing how to continue.

The British officer turned around, looking into the detective's hazel eyes and stared at him for a few moments before speaking again.

-So I can't help but wonder... Where did I go wrong?

I had what he had, I had found THE only person who could stand me and live with my world of secrets and spies... The person I could imagine a future with... I didn't need anything else or nothing more.

And I ruined everything-

Never in all the years of their relationship had Mycroft been so open and sincere about his feelings, and only for those words did Greg felt winded: had Mycroft really thought about a future together as he had done so many times?

Exhaling noisily, Greg looked down at the desktop, remembering why they were in that situation and then brought his eyes back to the man still standing a few steps away.

"You know what you did wrong" he said, his voice almost a whisper.

Mycroft nodded allowing himself to take a step towards the desk.

-I know that.

But now you have to tell me how or what I can do to make things right between us.

I've spent the last eight weeks obsessively thinking about what happened and I still can't find a solution- Mycroft said sincerely, frowning the next moment.

\- Why didn't you tell me the cause of our problems months ago? -he asked.

Greg frowned, surprised by that unexpected question.

"This has nothing to do with...- Greg started to say.

Mycroft shook his head.

-Of course it has! How can you not understand that?

Our current problems are a consequence of what happened then: if I had known that you wanted children...- Mycroft tried to explain.

Greg shook his head hard, feeling the anger raise in him.

"Don't you dare blame me!" he said through clenched teeth, knowing that his words could also be heard by the men of his team because of the flimsy walls of his office.

Mycroft shook his head.

-No, I didn't mean that.

If I had known eight weeks ago what I know now, I know for a fact that I would have behaved differently- he explained.

Greg let off slip a sarcastic laugh.

-Yeah, right…- Greg said unable to control his sarcastic tone

-Sherlock told me that you put aside your desire for fatherhood because of me...-continued Mycroft undaunted.

"Well Sherlock should have kept his mouth shut!" retorted Greg, looking up at the man, feeling betrayed by the way Sherlock had told his brother the secrets he had almost extorted.

An affectionate smile appeared on Mycroft's face, leaving the other interdicted for a few moments.

-If he hadn’t, we would have gone separate ways.

On the other hand at this time he is disgustingly happy and his only intent seems to be to spread further happiness to those around him.

Why didn't you tell me? -the British official asked again, once again serious.

"It doesn't matter anymore" said Greg though his teeth.

-Gregory...-

Without even realizing it, Greg slammed the open palm of his right hand on the desk violently, then sat in a still position that he had so often seen the other take.

-Fuck you Mycroft! You can't show up here with that penitent look on your face and hope to fix everything with a snap of your fingers!

If I had told you that I was thinking about having children, you would have told me once again that children were not part of your future plans, or that we were too old even to think of such a thing.

Or even worse, you'd have laughed in my face like you did the day we talked about it at your mother's.

So why waste my breath? -Greg asked him, letting his frustration be clear in tone of his voice.

Greg wanted to stand up and get out of that office leaving Mycroft behind, walk until his anger was boiled down or until his legs collapsed from exhaustion, but a small part of his brain, still untouched by anger, kept telling him to wait and that that meeting would change his relationship with Mycroft forever.

Although he had no idea whether it would be for better or for worse.

-Before we started our relationship, I was scared.

You know I'm a difficult person, and the idea of starting a relationship with you literally terrified me at first.

The idea of giving you all that power over me was impossible to accept...

But luckily you made me change my mind: you convinced me to put aside my fears and give us a chance.

If you'd told me about your wish, maybe we could have found a way... an agreement to reshape our relationship so that we were both happy without one or the other having to put aside his desires" Mycroft said, returning to sit in one of the chairs in front of the desk.

Greg breathed noisily and shrugged.

It was easy now to make such speeches: their relationship had self-destructed on its own without great help from one or the other and they could spend hours sitting in that room looking for all the possible causes that had decreed the end without ever finding a solution.

But what was the purpose of that other than reopen old wounds?

-Well it seems too late now...- Greg commented in a low voice, certain that the other man would hear his words.

For a few moments in the office, silence returned: Greg continued to stare at the floor of his desk, cluttered with paperwork and half occupied by a old and buzzing computer, while Mycroft watched the man in front of him, cataloguing the small differences he could grasp on his person, comparing them to the last image he had of him, eight weeks old, looking for a name for that multitude of feelings that Gregory was able to arouse in him.

Mycroft wasn't willing to give him up.

Not as long as he had enough arguments to pursue his cause.

-From our first kiss I spent my time waiting- Mycroft started.

Greg raised his head at those words, bringing his gaze back to the man's calm face and frowned.

Meeting his hazel eyes Mycroft hinted a shy smile.

-I always knew I wasn't the most attractive, or funniest or interesting man you could meet, so from our first kiss I've been waiting for you to realize you've made a mistake.

I am a difficult man, with a big luggage behind me, a demanding and stressful job... Not many men can keep up with me.

But you did.

You stayed month after month, year after year... And slowly my fears were pushed to the farthest corner of my mind ready to make their presence known at the least appropriate moments, even after we started living together-Mycroft confessed.

Greg saw Mycroft lower his eyes on his tapered, fingers to hide his shyness and breathed deeply in preparation for what Mycroft would tell him shortly thereafter.

-Part of me was trying to enjoy our life together as much as possible, convinced that sooner or later that "dreamy life" would be taken away from me.

"Was my reassurances or what I did to show you my love not enough to silence those voices inside your head?" asked Greg, slightly wounded that his partner had feared to being abandoned for as long as they had spent together.

The British official shook his head.

-Oh Gregory, no.

It's not about that... You just have to look at me to figure out what I'm talking about.

What more could I offer you that others didn't have? -Mycroft asked him before nervousness came back to color his face.

-That's why when I saw you with Daniel I thought... This is the time -he confessed embarrassed as a few times before.

Greg sighed, rubbing his eyes.

"He's sixteen Myc" Greg replied with a tired voice.

How many more times would he have to defend himself against that absurd and unfounded accusation?

The mere thought of having sex with Daniel was revolting, and Greg was aware that if he ever did such a thing, he would never be able to look at himself in the mirror again.

Mycroft nodded.

-I'm aware of that.

But in my eyes he represented the embodiment of all my fears-

"And I complicated everything letting him stay at our house while you were away" Greg added.

-I am deeply ashamed of my thoughts, of my actions and my behavior throughout the whole matter, but I want to make it very clear that nothing that happened is in any way your fault.

Finally I assure you that I will respect whatever decision you make regarding our relationship- Mycroft concluded, placing one hand on the desk top, palm down while the other was still grasping in an almost spasmodic way the handle of the umbrella.

Greg remained silent at the end of that long speech: now the ball was in his midfield.

Mycroft had left him the final decision and if he wanted to, or if he had been a stronger man, their story would have ended here in his office on a mid-July afternoon.

Unfortunately, when it came to Mycroft, he had never been a strong man...

The detective sighed and raised his arms, sinking all ten fingers into his short salt and pepper hair, trying to put order in his thoughts.

"What do you expect me to say?" he asked in a weary voice.

"I still can't believe that you really believed even for a second that I was capable of betray you.

And just to be clear, if I really wanted to do that I would have chosen an adult, or I would have focused all my attention on Anthea, not on a 16-year-old boy! -Greg scolded him.

Mycroft raised an eyebrow, surprised by the hint on his assistant, but stood silently waiting for the other man to continue.

-You just said that you spent most of our time together waiting for me to dump you or realize our story was a mistake... What makes you think it wasn't the same for me? -Greg asked him sincere.

Mycroft raised an eyebrow.

-What do you mean?- Mycroft asked him confused.

In front of the incredulous expression on his face, Greg smiled.

-Oh Myc... Look at you... And then take a look at me.

You are an elegant man, you come from a rich and powerful family that for generations has helped shape our country and make it what it is now, with an important job that essentially supports the entire nation.

Then there's me: my parents emigrated to London from France after the Second World War, had a bakery in the East End and wanted a large family, but they had to give up their dreams because of financial problems.

You studied at Harrow and Cambridge while I went to community college... The best my parents could afford.

I have a failed marriage behind me, a job that I love but that is definitely underpaid and that literally makes me crazy, thanks also to your brother, and besides it helped to give me white hair ahead of time.

If it wasn't for Sherlock who suddenly broke into my crime scene, you wouldn't have even given me a second look- Greg commented without acrimony.

-It would have been a big mistake... – commented Mycroft.

Greg shrugged.

Mycroft let the silence fell after the long speech, reflecting on his partner’s words, if he could still call it that.

Gregory was right: they came from two completely different worlds that under normal circumstances would never have had the chance to meet or interact, except for work reasons (but Mycroft was aware that in that case he would leave Anthea to deal with it).

Sherlock, however, as he used to do, had shuffled all the cards and put them on the same path, starting a series of events that had led them first to get to know each other, then to meet for updates about Sherlock and later to become friends for years before that friendship finally turned into something else.

-Do you still have feelings for me? Under all the anger and resentment, you think there's still a little bit of love left... - Mycroft ventured to ask, genuinely concerned about the answer.

An expression in disbelief had taken over Gregory's face to his words, leading him to pass his hand over his face.

-You bloody idiot! Of course I still have feelings for you!

Why do you think I feel like shit right now ? -he asked.

Mycroft blinked, allowing himself with that one gesture to express all the relief caused by those words.

-But it's not easy. I can't erase the last eight weeks as if they never happened- Greg said.

The British official nodded.

-I understand.

I think this is a good time to tell you that despite the recent events, for which I am totally responsible, my feelings for you have not changed, indeed I believe they have strengthened with your distance and with my fear of losing you.

No matter how long it takes, I promise you that I will do everything I can to regain your trust back-

Greg look at him silent, searching for a trap hidden in the calm tone of the man's voice or in the kind words, but after a few moments he had to surrender to reality: Mycroft had missed him as much if not more than Greg did.

The detective knew him well and knew that Mycroft would say and do anything to get what he wanted, but Greg was also aware that he was a man who did not make many promises: when and if a man of the caliber and importance of Mycroft Holmes made a promise to someone, he did so because he was sure he could keep his word.

Gregory examined his history with the Holmes brothers and for the umpteenth time he realized that his life would have been much simpler and less complicated if the two men had not appeared in his path; but at the same time it would have been utter boredom.

So one more time, when he found himself faced with the choice of turning his back once and for all on Mycroft (_and consequently Sherlock_) or trying to fix things with his partner and keep living his life as he had been up to that point, Greg sighed deeply and made his decision.

-It's going to take some time-

The tension on Mycroft's shoulder muscles instantly dissolved and the man nodded, giving a little smile to Greg.

-I'm a patient man.

Especially if the stakes are as high as in this case-Mycroft reassured him.

Greg nodded and settled into his chair so that his right hand was placed on the desk floor at a minimum distance from Mycroft's, the tips of the two medium fingers touching each other.

Looking at their hands, Greg thought that this small gesture perfectly represented their current situation: two men who were willing to meet halfway, ready to work together on their problems so that they could keep walking together on the path that had led them there.

Hopefully as long as both lived.

_____________________________

At 8.15pm, after ten hours of waiting wandering through the corridors of the hospital, the waiting room and the ambulance room where he could indulge in yet another forbidden cigarette, Sherlock was on the verge of insanity.

John and Victoria had been in there for too long and from the little information he had managed to get from passing nurses, or rather the one who had not been discouraged by his abrupt and typically Sherlock-ians ways, he knew that everything was going well but slowly, mainly because of Victoria's young age.

While waiting, Sherlock had made five phone calls to Mrs. Hudson to make sure Hamish was well and informing the elderly woman of the few progress made so far, had smoked eight to twelve cigarettes (_Catching the disapproving looks from the nurses that saw him smoking too close to the windows of the Emergency rooms_ ) and eat half ham sandwich and drank a cup of coffee that Molly had put in his hands at around 2pm, when she had come up from the morgue for her lunch break and had bothered to get something to eat for him too.

Time had always had an abstract conception for Sherlock Holmes, capable of shrinking or disappearing completely according to his needs, but this was the first time that Time seemed to stretch indefinitely making seconds to last minutes and the minutes to last for hours.

Finding a distraction was impossible, despite the dozens of people who had sat next to him or had just crossed his field of vision in the past hours and would have been a great distraction, but his mind for the first time was elsewhere, beyond the sliding doors behind which the delivery rooms were "hiding".

_Is that what all the men who were about to become fathers felt?_

The first time had been easy, or at least Sherlock had not experienced such a high level of anxiety: Hamish had been left in his apartment at a considerable age, seven months, thus avoiding that "useless" waiting.

Unable to stand still in the same spot any longer, the detective walked down the aisle back and forth in large strides, indifferent of people staring at him with an understanding smile or trying to get around him to walk through the sliding doors.

John found him in that state.

The doctor was exhausted by the long and tiring day, but the adrenaline rushing through his veins prevented him from collapsing and slumping on the floor giving him the impression that he could go on for another ten hours.

He knew he was in a pitiful state: despite taking off his scrub slightly stained with blood and organic material, his hair was shot in all directions and damp with sweat, under his eyes the ever-present dark circles had begun to form due to the long day and he was convinced that his shoes had not been spared from the chaos of the delivery room.

But none of this mattered.

The only important thing at that moment was huddled in his arms, in a niche of his elbow, in a slight sleep.

Looking quickly around the long corridor it was not difficult for the doctor to see the goal of his search, twisted as and perhaps more than him due to the long wait and lack of news.

A smile stretched out the man's lips and after casting a further glance at the newborn in his arms, John stepped forward.

-Sherlock-called him in a moderate voice.

Hearing his name spoken the detective turned and, at the sight of his partner his eyes opened wide, walking the short distance between them in two long strides, stopping in front of John, his body tense in a nervous excitement.

John stood still, in a reassuring pose despite every muscle in his body shouting the tiredness of those hours and, after looking at his boyfriend reading what had happened beyond the sliding doors during those ten long hours, Sherlock lowered his gaze and laid his eyes on the bundle wrapped in the pale yellow blanket that John cautiously hold in his arms, instantly stiffening before the tangible evidence of the enormous change that would take place in the last few seconds.

Sherlock hated changes: as a boy a sudden change had driven him away from his first friend and lover pushing him into the spirals of drugs and during his adulthood another change had forced him to lie and hide for three long years, away from John and the few people who had learned to love him.

But in that last year there had also been positive changes: he and John had finally found the courage to take a leap and break the last barrier that still stood between them, forever altering their friendship and turning it into something precious and unique.

Hamish's arrival had made them a family, fulfilling John's long-life dream of being a father, a desire common to all men put aside too soon and for the wrong reasons.

And now that little human being, curled up perfectly in the hollow of John's right elbow was the last big change.

Perhaps the most important.

The one that would consolidate their fledgling family and show all skeptics that their relationship was not just a flirt, but something long-term and powerful that hopefully would last forever.

John gave him a reassuring and affectionate smile at the same time and quickly looked down at the newborn girl before bringing his eyes back to Sherlock's ice-blue ones.

-There is someone who can’t wait to meet you- John said in a low voice.

Sherlock observed John's large and firm hand as it gently moved one corner of the blanket away so that the little girl's face could be clearly visible.

-Say hello to Hope-

Sherlock studied the appearance on the newborn's face: her plump-cheeked face, her small button-down nose, and her small, slightly red ears; her eyelids were covered with small blue veins and her eyes were closed, preventing Sherlock from seeing the little girl's gaze. 

To frame that little picture, a small tuft of reddish hair covered her head.

-Take her- John whispered.

Sherlock mechanically shook his head unable to look away from the little girl.

-No, I'm not. I can't... I'd end up dropping her- Sherlock said clearly nervous.

John smiled again, moved by his boyfriend’s words and insecurity.

-Of course not, silly...

Wait, let me show you: hold her head with one hand- John instructed him as he moved closer to Sherlock until he touched the man's right shoulder with his left and passed the little girl carefully to him, while observing at the same time that Sherlock followed his directions. - Now put your other hand along her back... That's great.

You see that? You're holding her - John said, unable hold back a big smile.

Sherlock stood still, Hope perfectly placed in his arms, incapable to look away from the little girl who in her light sleep moved a small fist in front of her face.

In the distance Sherlock heard the sound of a click and a distant part of his brain informed him that John had took a photograph of that private and unique moment but could not find any objection.

-She’s so small- Sherlock said.

-Yes, she's a little underweight, but she'll recover in a few weeks- John reassured him standing close to him and putting a hand on Sherlock's right shoulder.

-She’s perfect- Sherlock said.

A new smile stretched out John's lips, leading him to caress the curly hair at the base of his boyfriend’s neck, feeling the need to show his affection for that man, so particular and unique, that had repeatedly put John back on his feet and who had managed to give him everything he wanted.

-Yeah, she’s absolutely perfect-John agreed.

-How's Victoria?- Sherlock asked, finally looking up to meet John's ocean-blue eyes.

-She's very tired and also a little emotionally drained, but nothing that can't be fixed with a good sleep and with time- John reassured him.

Sherlock nodded before bringing his eyes back to Hope.

-When could we take her home?- he asked, eager to get away from that white corridor and the swarm of people coming in and out of the automatic doors.

-The doctors have to finish the last check-ups, and then we could take her home.

I think it's going to take a couple of hours at most- John informed him, leveraging his knowledge of medical procedures.

-Can we take Victoria home too?- Sherlock asked worried, looking up to his partner.

Sherlock had had time to get to know and interact with the young woman, driven mainly by the bond that John and Victoria had formed over the previous months, and especially in gratitude for the enormous gift Victoria had given them.

-The doctors want to keep her in observation for one night in case complications arise or there are bleeding, but she will come home tomorrow-

Sherlock nodded.

John's hand began to caress the detective's thick hair, finding a slight comfort in that simple gesture and for a few moments the two men remained silent, their gaze on the newborn among them, immersed in a small parallel world careless of the people or the chaos that surrounded them.

Those few moments would have been the basis on which a new room would arise in Sherlock’s Mental Palace, a room dedicated exclusively to the little girl and that over time would be filled with all her accomplishments and downfalls, the sound of her laughter and the peculiar expression that will appeared on her face moments before the little girl will burst into tears, the myriad of small details that would make her one of the fundamental people in Sherlock’s life.

-Hope Elizabeth Watson... Welcome to the family- Sherlock said.

John met his gaze; his eyes slightly veiled with tears of happiness and leaned towards Sherlock and making a slight pressure with his hand still resting on the nape of Sherlock's neck brought their lips together in a small kiss.

-I have to get her back in.

The doctors made an exception letting me bring her here to let you see her, I don't want them to think I'm running away with her- John joked.

Sherlock nodded before carefully putting Hope in John's arms.

-The sooner the doctors finish checking her, the sooner we can go home- Sherlock said. -I'll call Mrs. Hudson and hear her cry on the phone after I've given her the news- he added trying to put his poker face back on.

John chuckled and leaned back for one last kiss before catching his eye.

-I'll be back as soon as possible- he promised.

Sherlock nodded imperceptibly and watched them walk down the aisle and disappear behind the sliding doors, feeling an unexpected feeling of emptiness in his chest.

For a moment Sherlock wondered if it was not a symptom of a heart attack, then his rational mind discarded the hypothesis and found the cause in the temporary removal from his arms of the newborn.

Soon, within a few hours they would take her home, and then his life, his new life in which John Hamish and little Hope will be there, could really begin.

Let the game start...

____________________________

After a 12-hour day in the maternity ward, John Watson was finally home.

Aware of the tiredness that weighed on the doctor's shoulders due to the long day, Sherlock had ordered him to get in the shower and relax for at least half an hour while he looked after the children, gently pushing him towards the bathroom door.

As the hot water jet massaged his stiff shoulders, John closed his eyes and reflected on the day that was coming to an end, allowing himself a slight, weary but happy smile.

The one that had just passed had been one of the most important days of his life: he had become a father.

From now on for the next eighteen years, and beyond, his priority would be Hope Elizabeth.

Along with Hamish, of course.

And Sherlock.

Especially Sherlock...

John had been by Victoria's bed side the whole time assisting her as much as he could, offering her ice chips when she was thirsty, giving her a back massage when the pains became too severe and walking miles down the aisle with her when the midwife advised her to walk to speed up the contractions.

In hindsight, John was happy with how things had been resolved because he now knew for sure that he would never be able to help to give birth to Hope all by himself in their apartment, as they had planned to do during Victoria's pregnancy.

Like all medical students he had spent a couple of months during his internship in obstetrics, but since he decide to became an emergency doctor, John had never deepened his knowledge and the basics he had gathered years earlier to pass the exams had quickly faded with time.

Moreover, everyone knows that a doctor should never take care of his family because of the sentimental ties that would obscure the necessary lucidity in those moments: John had no problem mending a small wound on Sherlock's body at the end of a case, but no sane man would allow him to bring his own daughter into the world.

Sherlock was right about this too: Hope was his daughter, to hell with the genetic heritage.

From the first instant he had laid eyes on her, still screaming at being ripped from the warm and reassuring hiding spot that had housed her for nine months covered in blood and organic material, John had felt an instantaneous love that made him unable to look away from the baby and completely deaf to what surrounded him, to the point that the nurse had to put her hand on his right forearm to get his attention asking him again if he wanted to cut the umbilical cord.

By the time John picked her up for the first time, the nurses had already cleaned her up and wrapped her in a yellow blanket, giving Hope a less alien look and staring at her little face John had inexplicably found himself in tears.

Large wet patches had stained the blanket and trying to control himself the doctor had rubbed his right cheek against his shoulder, trying to erase the traces of his momentary weakness.

But when he came out into the hallway and introduced Hope to Sherlock helping him hold her in his arms John had been on the verge of bursting into tears a second time, hiding the emotion behind his cell phone and stealing a snapshot of that special moment.

The former sociopath completely enraptured from the first meeting with their daughter.

John smiled once again at that memory and closed the taps coming out of the shower the next moment.

With a towel wrapped around his waist and another used to dry his wet hair, John stopped by the sink and looked at his reflection for a few moments.

John Watson was forty years old and in the last twenty years he had found himself every morning, making a quick inventory of his own life in front of dozens of different mirrors and in dozens of different places.

_ Was he the man he wanted to become as a child? Did he have a clear goal in his life? Was_ _there anything missing in his life?_

John had asked himself those three simple questions so many times over the years, and the answers had changed depending on events and situations, but he could never answer all three questions in the affirmative.

**_Was he the man he wanted to_**** be as_ a child?_** He was an honest and just man who had fulfilled his dream of becoming a doctor, even if it meant accepting compromises.

He had his own flaws, like everyone else, but he could control them and on certain occasions he could also take advantage of them (_as it had happened with his need for adrenaline and the constant search for dangerous situations_).

**_Did he have a clear_**** _ goal?_** Over the years, his goals had changed many times.

When he was a student, his sole purpose was to graduate with the highest grades and go to University without affecting the family budget too much; during his military career, the primary goal was of course to stay alive and save as many comrades as possible.

In the aftermath of Afghanistan he had worried about keeping Sherlock alive (sometimes literally) and after The Fall to survive despite having no desire to live.

Now what was your goal? There was only one possible answer to that question: to take care of Sherlock and their children with the same passion and commitment that he had put into it so far.

**_Was there anything missing in his life?_** Every time that John asked that question to his reflection, especially in recent years, a missing element stood out above the others: a family.

He had achieved excellent work goals, but what was inevitably overlooked was the search for a partner and the creation of a family.

It should be added, moreover, that whenever John believed that he had found the right person to build something with, he had inevitably had to think again.

Then Sherlock appeared in his path, making him question everything he knew about himself and thus create a new John Watson.

It was thanks to the detective, the self-proclaimed sociopath who didn't believe in friendship and love, if he now had a partner and children.

If, for the first time in twenty years, he could say with extreme confidence that there was nothing John felt lacking in his life.

John would never stop thanking him for this huge gift.

Leaving the damp towel in the dirty laundry basket, John walked into their bedroom and quickly put on his pajama pants and a black T-shirt before climbing the ten steps that would take him to his former bedroom now turned into a nursery for Hamish and Hope.

Standing on the last step, Sherlock's low reassuring voice came to his ear, causing John to walk cautiously, as if afraid to scare a wild animal.

The scene that appeared in front of his eyes once he stopped on the threshold of the room made his heart skip a beat: Sherlock seated in the rocking chair moved to be closer to Hamish's crib, where the little boy lay fast asleep, held Hope in his arms caressing her back with one of his big hands.

The low chatter he had heard on the stairs turned out to be a lullaby directed at both children that the man was humming in Hope's ear and of which John managed to catch the last verse.

_"I'll sing a sweet serenade whenever you're feeling sad_

_ And a lullaby each night before you go to bed_

_ I'll sing to you for the rest of your life_

_ The way I'm feeling I can't keep it inside!_ "

At the end of the verse Sherlock looked up at John and gave him a shy smile while, with an identical grin, John entered the room and moved closer to the right of the rocking chair bending on his knees to be at the same height as the detective.

John rested a hand on Sherlock's back and for a brief moment in the room there was silence, broken only by the noisy breath of the two children.

-John- Sherlock said, drawing the man's attention to himself.

The doctor raised his head slightly to meet his boyfriend’s ice-blue eyes and stared at him.

-Thank you-

-For what?- John whispered back.

Sherlock let his gaze wander around the room, incorporating the nursery, the children, their Baker Street apartment and their life together before returning to stare at his partner's ocean blue eyes.

-For everything-replied in the end and, sincere as he had been only a few times before.

John leaned slightly toward the man and placed a small kiss on his right cheekbone.

-Oh William... I should be the one to thank you, don't you understand?- asked John. - Without you we wouldn't be here now - he added, genuinely convinced of his words.

Sherlock shook his head, trying not to bother the newborn placed against his left shoulder.

-No... You, me and you made this possible.

You were the missing piece I've been looking for for years... The element I needed to make the experiment perfect- Sherlock said with firm belief.

John stared at him for a few seconds before leaning back toward the man laying a series of tender kisses on Sherlock's soft, perfectly drawn lips.

Another man would have been annoyed to be compared to a chemical element, but John could clearly read the meaning hidden in Sherlock’s confused words: several times Sherlock had stated that love was nothing more than chemical reactions produced from our body in response to male or female hormones.

_We fall in love with the person with the hormones that are most compatible with ours._

Of course John was an eternal romantic, repeatedly teased by Sherlock for this, and he was firmly convinced that a relationship was based on affection, shared experiences, mutual esteem and much more.

But that little phrase was nothing more than a declaration of love for Sherlock Holmes.

_"I've waited for you for most of my life, I've lost you and found you many times, but now that you're here with me I wouldn't want to be anywhere else."_

Looking around again, catching Misha’s face partially hidden by the blue blanket in his crib, listening to the repetitive sound of the rocking chair on which his partner and Hope were sitting, John realized that Sherlock was right.

It had been a long and difficult journey but they had finally reached the finish line.

Together.

Ready for the next adventure.

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**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Songs:
> 
> "Something good"- The sound of music ( Title & Quote)  
" Can't keep it inside"- Song sung by Benedict Cumberbatch in "Osage County"


End file.
